


Trick Question

by nacho_bucky



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:53:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26663989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nacho_bucky/pseuds/nacho_bucky
Summary: It’s a weekly battle of wills for Bucky and the Reader, as they navigate the stunning pressure that is pub trivia. Can these obdurate opponents find any middle-ground? Bucky x Reader. Modern AU. Previously posted on my Tumblr, @nacho-bucky.
Relationships: Carol Danvers/Maria Rambeau, James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader, Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 30
Kudos: 89





	1. Potent Potables

Halfway through a lightning round of Shakespeare trivia, you decided you hated Bucky Barnes. 

Well, ‘hate’ was a strong word. Not like you wanted the guy dead or anything. But wiping that smug, self-satisfied smirk off his perfect face? Yeah, that would be nice. 

“ _Richard III_ ,” he said smoothly, after casually swatting at his team’s buzzer. 

“Ten points to The Heartbreakers!” Bella, the moderator for tonight’s quiz, had sampled one too many margaritas, and her already-effervescent enthusiasm had reached an all-time high. “Next question: what is Shakespeare’s shortest play?” 

Three days of intensive Shakespeare review fluttered through your mind; you tried visualizing the binder that Wanda “Type A” Maximoff had put together in preparation for Literature Night. Shakespeare had been the blue tab, right? “Shit.” Natasha fumbled with her tequila.”I know this.” 

Across the pub, Bucky flexed his hand casually over the button, tossing a cocky grin over to your table, glancing self-assuredly at his teammate and best friend, Steve. His plump, perfect lips parted before he’d even pressed the button, but -- 

_Buzz!_

“Brainiacs?” Bella turned a slightly dazed but encouraging smile on you, and a broad, triumphant beam curved on your face as you caught Bucky’s eye. 

“ _The Comedy of Errors_ , with under two-thousand lines,” you announced, a confident smile firmly in place. 

It was a twenty-point question, and despite Bucky’s impressive performance throughout the evening, your correct response cinched a win for the neurology department. Your table exploded in cheers when Bella pronounced the winners, and Nat fell off her stool in the middle of ordering another round of margaritas for the table. You downed a few celebratory shots before Bella pulled you up to the stage. 

Gloating a little on the high of your victory, you accepted the small, plastic trophy on behalf of your whole team, making an elaborate, if fuzzy, acceptance speech, all the while trying to avoid looking at Bucky. Ball-cap pulled low -- who the hell actually _wore_ a ball-cap indoors? -- and arms crossed on the table in front of him, no one really had the right to look _that good_ in a white t-shirt. 

“And I just wanted to thank the obsess-obset-ob -- wow, that’s hard to say -- the baby FedEx department for coming out tonight,” you slurred, blinking as Bucky’s stupidly handsome face came into sharp view. “You may have named your team after a Shakespeare play, but you let him down brilliantly tonight, and for that, we’re so grateful.” 

A chorus of laughter swelled and surrounded you as you headed over to the bar, deciding to order some water to go with your nachos. Back at the table, Wanda, Natasha, and Ethan had begun singing something that _vaguely_ sounded like a Journey song, but you weren’t entirely sure. 

You flagged down the bartender, and ordered the “everything but the kitchen sink” style plate of nachos, enough for your whole team and Bella.

Now that the trivia contest had finished for the evening, the pub had resumed the pumping, eclectic soundtrack that was part of its charm -- Lizzo was up right now, but it could be Elton John or John Denver coming up next, you never knew. Drumming your fingers on the gleaming bartop, you watched, with some intoxicated fondness, as your team was congratulated by the cardiology department, as well as pediatrics. 

Love’s Labour’s Lost were still pretty sore about having, well, _lost._

Steve blushed beet-red when Natasha shook his hand, but that may have been more to do with the fact that she also stroked his cheek at the same time. Bucky, though, was nowhere in sight. Now where had that smug little shit gotten to? 

“Looking for someone, baby girl?” 

Ocean-blue eyes, artful stubble; a grin that could give a girl some _interesting_ ideas. Bucky leaned against the bar behind you, taking a sip of beer; you tried to pretend you weren’t watching the way his lips curved around the mouth of the bottle, not to mention the bob in his throat as he swallowed. “Tell me,” he said, biting at his bottom lip -- “how the _hell_ did you know about the connection between _Henry IV, Part I_ and starlings in New York City?” 

You arched a brow, looking him up and down, hoping to conceal the way your heart had begun hammering in your chest at the soft, spicy scent of his cologne. “I’m a bonafide genius, Barnes, that’s how.” 

“Aw, come on,” he murmured, stepping closer. Did he just -- yeah, he licked his lip. You tried not to squeak at the sight of his tongue. “Don’t be like that. I’m happy for you, baby girl, you gotta know.” A finger reached out to gently stroke the back of your hand, clenched on the bar. 

“Hands-off, Barnes.” Wanda’s crisp, strident voice -- lightly accented -- cut through the tense space between you. “No fraternizing with my team.” 

A slow drawl of a smile; Bucky shot you a wink before leaning back and away. “You got it, Doctor Maximoff,” he said, that smirk back in place. “I was just congratulating your head Brainiac here on her impressive performance tonight. I like her... _stamina_.” 

Wanda rolled her eyes. “Don’t be gross. I think Steve is looking for you anyways.”

Another wave of cologne hit you as Bucky leaned over your shoulder, mouth startlingly-close to your ear, sending soft, hot shivers down your spine. “Feel free to turn around and watch me walk away, honey,” he rasped. “I have a feeling you might like the view.” 

_Nope, nope, nope_. 

Instead, you fixed your gaze firmly on Wanda’s face, arms stiff at your side until she’d given you a silent all-clear. In a huff, you sank forward onto your elbows, peering hopefully towards the kitchen. “We need to talk about tonight,” Wanda said. “You’re quick on the buzzer, but I need you even quicker. And I’m instating a no-alcohol rule until all rounds are completed.” 

“Can’t we talk strategy tomorrow?” you pleaded. “Wan, come on. We _won_. Let’s enjoy that, at least.” 

She shook her head, sweeping those blazing auburn curls over one shoulder as she all but slammed her tablet on the bar. “I’m on call tomorrow, you know that. It’s why I’m not drinking. Now, let’s look at the schedule…” 

Wanda liked to toe the line between charmingly driven and annoyingly obsessive, and she did it all with killer heels and two doctorates. The tequila shots had made you somewhat indulgent, though you were pretty sure Barnes’ cologne had gotten you drunker than the shots, and you found yourself wrapping your arms around her neck as she scrolled through her calendar. 

“Hmm...okay, next week is just general trivia,” she said, chewing on the end of her stylus. “And Maria will be back, thank God. Carol’s course will be finished and she can stay with Monica. The week after that, Ethan’s away, but it’s Disney night. Maria can handle that on her own, no competition there…” 

The true irony of the situation was, Wanda had _loathed_ the prospect of an interdepartmental trivia competition when the suggestion was first floated via a series of emails, two years ago. It was designed to bring members of the different hospital departments closer together on their off-time, and though it _had_ given rise to a few new connections, she had been attracted more by the way the once-a-week tradition catered to her ruthless competitive streak. 

“Remember, I can’t come the week after that,” you reminded her, as the bartender returned with your plate of nachos. “Write it down.” 

Carefully, you wove your way through the crush of tables and patrons, balancing the plate high above everyone as Wanda trailed behind you, eyes still focused on her tablet. “Yeah, I know. And Nat is on call next Thursday and won’t be coming. Ethan can’t make it either.” 

A pounding, rhythmic beat had Natasha dancing with Steve; but you were more interested in the nachos. Thick, gooey dollops of cheese; a rich salsa; huge chunks of onions and peppers -- hell, you couldn’t suppress the moan that escaped your lips as you took your first bite. 

“Damn, I like _that_ sound.” 

_Barnes_. 

Stupid handsome, still stupid handsome. Wanda was so engrossed in her calendar, she didn’t pay him or his repulsively suggestive comment any mind, merely slid off her stool mumbling something about it being quieter in the bathroom. 

Bucky smiled as he sat down, turning his hat backwards to give you a better view of those blue eyes, currently sparkling with amusement. “Go on, have another bite. Wanna hear that again,” he cooed, nodding at the plate.

“You’re vile,” you said primly, dabbing at your mouth with a napkin. “So, go on, congratulate me, Barnes. I know you’re dying to admit that I’m smarter than you.” 

A grin, stretched wide -- oh, God, did his eyes _have_ to crinkle at the edges like that? “Congratulations, baby girl,” he said quietly, leaning in closer. “It takes a big man to be magnanimous in defeat, and I am that big man.” 

You furrowed your brow. “Was that supposed to be a reference to your endowment?” you asked, innocently plucking a wedge of pepper from the plate. 

“Do you want to find out?” 

“Sorry, I only go home with winners.” Bucky laughed as you blew him a kiss, holding up his hands in surrender. 

“Alright, alright, I’ll ease up.” He lifted his hat, swiped a hand through his hair. He’d cut it recently, letting those ends stand up firmer, but it still looked lush, a rich, chocolatey brown. “Seriously, you’ve gotta tell me how you do it. Your team wins almost every week.” 

“Except for the weeks _your_ team wins,” you pointed out, scooping up another helping of cheese. “Look, I don’t know what to tell you. Wanda has made it very clear we’re not to share our methods with our enemies.” 

He shook his head in disbelief, folding his arms and leaning forward. Another waft of that damn cologne had your head spinning all over again, but _he was your enemy_. You needed to keep a straight face. “Look, you don’t think this whole competition between neurology and cardiology is getting a bit too intense? Steve said he’s too terrified of Wanda to ask Nat out.” 

“You’re not even part of the cardiology department, what do you care?” Oh, a _jalapeno_. Delicious. “Besides, Wanda’s not that scary.” 

His eyes narrowed, and he jabbed his chin over your shoulder. On the dance floor, Wanda was tugging Natasha and Steve apart, gesturing firmly to her tablet. Nat was drunkenly torn between hanging onto Steve’s thick bicep, and fixing her tumbling bun. Wanda was gesticulating wildly, long fingers pointing to the screen, and over to the table where you and Bucky sat. Her eyes were fierce, and she almost seemed to be _radiating_ intense energy. 

"Okay, you have one point.” 

“I’ve got more points than that, baby girl.” You opened your mouth, but he hurried to add: “Not a dick reference, slow down. I just meant, our teams were pretty close in points tonight...just like every trivia night.” 

It was true -- the Brainiacs and the Heartbreakers tended to be neck-in-neck every week. Occasionally, Paw Patrol (the pediatrics department, who had let their patients decide on their team name), would take the lead, but it was mainly the nights that you and Bucky weren’t playing. Two weeks ago, you’d both been absent -- Bucky on a shift as an ER tech, and you holed up at home with the stomach flu -- and Sam Wilson had led his team to a startled, but welcome, victory. 

“I think it’s cute that you try to keep up,” you offered, trying your hardest to be even faintly gracious. “But I plan on thoroughly whipping your ass every night I’m able to be here, Barnes, and that’s all I have to say on the matter.” 

His eyes _darkened_. Was there something hungry in them, or maybe he was just smelling the nachos? “Whipping, huh? I had no idea you were into that, baby girl.” 

“Ew.” 

Natasha, green eyes hazy with too much tequila, leaned her head dramatically against your shoulder. “You’re really gross, James,” she said, hiccuping gently. Steve appeared at her elbow just in time to prevent her from careening backwards; he blushed when she patted his cheek. “You’re sweet, I like you, but Wanda says I can’t sleep with you, okay?”

Cheeks burning, Steve stammered out a response that seemed more akin to Klingon than English. 

“And that’s our cue. Evening, ladies,” Bucky pushed away from the table, but not before stealing a limp, cheesy chip from your plate. With a soft groan, he licked his fingers clean, and waved goodbye. 

Leaving you trying to quell the fluttering waves of warmth in your stomach, and the goddamned replay of his tongue darting out. 


	2. Stupid Answers

A long shift, with several intense appointments and one consultation that had left you with a pounding headache. All you really wanted now was a glass of wine and something mindless to watch. 

But a swim sounded just as nice. 

The pool and gym were quiet at this time of night; except for the lifeguard -- a pimply teenager more interested in their phone than your safety -- you were alone, able to do some laps and luxuriate in the shallow end. Rolling your neck and muscles free of tension, and then relaxing even more deeply with a warm shower in the locker room. 

Predictably, your phone screen was full of notifications -- most of them from Wanda, stressing about tomorrow night’s trivia event. Just a general, non-themed night -- but sometimes those tended to freak her out even more. A quick promise to call her as soon as you got home, followed by the _ding_ of an incoming message from the library, letting you know your most recent order of books was now available. 

A sigh. More tension came crawling up your shoulders, and you were half-tempted to screw it all and jump back in the pool, but real-life beckoned. Library, grocery store, and then _wine_. Yeah, a lot of wine. 

The gym was quiet, all the better. Your mind was already halfway down the street as you mindlessly waved goodbye to the receptionist, and then firmly collided with a tree in the lobby. 

No -- not a tree. 

Blinking, you tried not to shiver at the press of two hands on your upper arms, steadying you and reaching for the bag you’d dropped. Tried not to let your gaze linger on the corded muscles of his forearms as he pulled back, or the crooked smile, bright blue eyes -- _shit_. 

“Bucky,” you said -- and why the hell did your voice come out so breathy? 

“Hey, baby girl.” His voice was raspy, maybe a little ragged. Tired, definitely tired, but not looking it one bit -- wearing a crisp grey t-shirt and basketball shorts. The shirt stretched rather smugly across his broad chest, matching the tight, crooked smile on his lips. “How are you?” 

It was a soft greeting; a far cry from the self-assured smack talk the two of you mostly exchanged. A rush of something tender almost had you reaching a hand out for him, and your fingers _definitely_ twitched -- and then froze, shooting back firmly to the strap of your bag, as Steve stepped into view behind him. 

The heat simmered away, replaced with the cool disdain that Natasha tended to call your “fighting stance.” It intimidated the hell out of most competitors at trivia nights. “Hi,” he said, looking nervously from Bucky to you, and back again. “How’s...how’s it going?” 

“Just fine,” you said calmly, eyes never leaving Bucky’s. His tongue darted out, licked at his lips. _No quivering_ , you thought firmly. This was not a damn Regency romance. _Nobody’s quivered since 1801._ “Long shift?” 

“Not for me,” Steve said, scratching at his cheek nervously; _you_ still weren’t totally used to him without the beard, and could only imagine how it was for him. “I’m heading in after this. Bucky just got off.” 

“Oh, did he now?” 

Was that -- yes. You’d just made Bucky Barnes _blush_. A tinge of pink dusting those angular cheekbones; a half-tucked smile. The uptick in your heartbeat was helpfully lost in the throbbing music of the gym speakers. “All ready for Thursday?” you asked brightly, hoping to conceal the way that smile made your belly flip. 

Steve explaining why he _wouldn’t_ be able to come, and though you knew it was rude, you hardly registered a word he said. “It’s just gonna be me and Kayla holding down the fort,” Bucky said warmly, gaze never wavering now from yours. “You gonna be there, honey?” 

_Honey_ and _baby girl_ and the words burst like fireworks on your skin every time he said them -- purred them, more like. You cleared your throat, adjusted the strap of your bag against your shoulder, and carefully tried to step around them. “Of course. Best of luck to Kayla. I’ll see you soon, Steve.” 

The poor man looked bewildered, cutting off his diatribe about the retirement gala next month in response to your rushed goodbye, but that wasn’t unusual, really, when it came to you and Bucky. Hot and cold and tense and _fraught_ with competition, with the relentless need to best each other. 

And with whatever had Bucky watching you walk away; and you looking back at him over your shoulder. 

* * *

No drinks tonight, but that was okay. Instead, you sipped at an iced tea and watched Bucky absolutely _nail_ the technology category. It was one you usually sat back for, knowing he’d absolutely annihilate you with his speed (he often just pressed the buzzer before fully processing the question, so confident was he in his responses). You would best him in the next category, you were sure of it; and geography was coming up next. Maria was a whiz. 

“In 2010, the US Air Force used a supply of over a thousand of these game consoles to construct a supercomputer. What is that game console -- yes, Heartbreakers?” Bella was much subdued this week; apparently the margaritas had hit her hard last time. 

“PlayStation 3,” said Bucky, leaning back in his chair and taking a swig of beer. 

_Cocky as hell._

Too many times in the past few days, you’d found your mind drifting to the encounter at the gym, lingering on the smaller details of Bucky’s smile, the way he moved. The breadth of his chest and the corded muscles of his arms. Tried not to picture him dripping with sweat, skin gleaming, after the workout. 

As though he could feel your stare, as though it was a magnetic touch, Bucky’s eyes found yours across the dim pub. There was warmth there, and a smile. Beside him, Kayla was furiously tapping the buzzer; and he shook his head. In the ER, she was cool as a cucumber, but put the slightest ounce of competition in front of her, and she was _ferocious_. 

You fought a smile, not wanting to be caught fraternizing with the enemy. But beside you, Wanda was sitting straight, rippling with energy, hand poised flat and waiting above the buzzer. She may not have noticed, but Maria clocked it. 

“He asked about you in the parking lot the other day, you know,” she said, elbowing you gently while reaching for another chip. Greek nachos tonight, at Wanda’s insistence. “Said he’d seen you coming out of the library or something last week. You were studying hard and ‘looked good,’ he said.” 

“Oh.” You weren’t quite sure what else to say to that. The public library _was_ near the gym, and Wanda tended to prefer physical books over endless scrolling through websites for quick facts. “That’s…that’s nice.” 

Maria’s expression softened. “You know, if you like him, you can talk to him. I’m pretty sure this cocky attitude is just a front. Carol can be the same way sometimes, when she’s feeling shy.” 

“Carol, shy?” An exchange of grins; Maria shrugged. 

“Look, I know Wanda can get a bit intense about it,” she continued, “but no one is going to judge you if you at least want to stop making heart-eyes at each other across the room. Or, those dagger-eyes you both try to pretend aren’t heart-eyes.” 

You opened your mouth, ready to fire off a retort, but Bella interrupted, announcing the next section -- food and drink. Bucky’s team was doing _spectacularly_ well tonight, even without Steve. But then, they did tend to shine on general trivia nights. Bucky possessed a wealth of random knowledge. 

But so did you. 

Flexing your fingers over the buzzer, you met Bucky’s eye one more time. Heart-eyes? No way. _This was war_ . And though he winked, and though that made something pretty dance along your spine, those stupid Heartbreakers were fifty points ahead, and you were going to _nail them_. 

“Claret is a dry red wine that is produced in which French region?” Bella asked. 

_Buzz_. 

“Bordeaux,” you said crisply, smirking at Bucky. Ten points. 

“This Greek dip is made from diluted yogurt, and a mixture of cucumber, garlic, salt, olive oil, and sometimes vinegar, herbs, or lemon juice.” 

_Buzz_. 

“Tzatziki.” Ten points. 

“A chocolate éclair consists of what type of pastry?” 

_Buzz._

“Choux.” 

“ _Gesundheit_ ,” Sam said, from the next table. Everyone laughed -- except for you and Bucky, who was now leaning forwards in his seat. He’d let you warm up; now he was preparing to take you down. 

_This_ was where the excitement came in: the moments strung taut and bright with anticipation. It felt like being _unleashed_ , the two of you -- the world carved down to his brain and yours. The noise of the pub fell away; the weight of a long shift melted to nothing but the touch of his gaze, stroking along your face. Not cocky now, but focused. Confident. 

“Lightning round, twenty points each,” Bella announced, retrieving the pink stack of cards from her podium. “Ready, teams?” 

Bucky gave you a swift nod. You were tempted to give him the finger, but resisted. 

“Grenadine comes from --”

_Buzz._

“Pomegranate,” Bucky said quickly. 

“Thai dishes that contain the word ‘mu’ typically feature --” 

_Buzz._

“Pork,” you snapped, eyes on him. 

“What are the two ingredients of a Dark and --”

_Buzz_. 

“Dark rum and ginger beer.” Your voice sounded breathless now, words coming out in a tumble, and were you imagining it, or had Bucky’s eyes darkened? Licking his lips again, that _bastard._

On and on it went, the other teams just giving up and ordering rounds of drinks. At his table, Sam was busy navigating a heated debate about which nacho platter to order, and Maria was playing with the umbrella of her drink. Wanda, as usual, was gazing at you reverently as you hammered out one correct response after another. 

By the time the Brainiacs were announced as the winners, you and Bucky had slid from your stools, fists poised over the buzzers, eyes trained heatedly on the other. So intense was the focus, you scarcely noticed Wanda and Maria slinging their arms around your neck, nor Kayla dramatically putting her face in her hands. 

All you could see was Bucky -- blue eyes gleaming with approval, maybe a bit of jealousy.

And looking straight at you. 

Butterflies burst into a soft frenzy in your stomach, spooling up madly when he gave you the slightest nod, and raised his bottle of beer to you across the table. It seemed a bit silly to do the same to your empty glass of iced tea, so you settled for a smile. 

Four weeks in a row now you’d beat him. And four weeks in a row he’d levelled this look at you across the pub. 

Wanda’s voice in your ear shattered the taut reverie, bringing you back down sharply with buzzing instructions: “Next week, we’ll get them in Disney trivia, too, but we really need to shore up our tech section for general nights.” 

“I wouldn’t even bother,” you said lightly, turning back to your team -- though Bucky’s eyes were still warm and tender on the back of your neck. “Barnes is too quick. We’d be better off just letting him take control and putting our time and energy into beefing up our pop culture knowledge.” 

“That’s Ethan’s game, isn’t it?” Maria flagged down a waitress with a beam and a generous swoop of her little umbrella. “When’s he coming back?” 

“When he’s emotionally recovered from that root canal, I guess.” From the corner of your eye, you saw Bucky standing up, pushing away from the table and grabbing his beer. Was he -- was he coming over? You tried to look _extremely_ interested in Wanda’s tablet. “So, Disney, and then what after that? Wasn’t there talk of a music trivia night?” 

Wanda shook her head, looking faintly irritated. “No,” she said quickly, that sharp edge of her accent appearing as it did when she was, in fact, faintly irritated. “That’s Stark’s retirement gala. We decided to skip that week. And then come back for the music night.”

“That would be right up Carol’s alley,” Maria laughed. “Maybe she can coach us.” 

“Or, she could get a job at the hospital.”

You laughed, but Wanda was dead serious. She’d been trying to convince Maria’s wife to quit her Air Force job for _months_ and take on anything she could at the hospital just to qualify to join the trivia team. 

As the usual, playful argument broke out between them, you risked a quick scan of the pub for Bucky. He was nowhere to be found, and your stomach sank. And for the rest of the evening, you tried very, very hard to convince yourself that what you felt was not _disappointment_. 


	3. Before & After

“Youngest Disney Princess?” 

_Buzz._

“Snow White.” 

“In the film _Sleeping Beauty,_ what was the name of Maleficent’s pet --”

 _Buzz_. 

“Diablo.” 

“This fictional pizza brand is featured in multiple Disney-Pixar movies --”

_Buzz._

“Pizza Planet.” 

“I think I’m in love,” Natasha sighed, chin propped on one hand. “Look at him go.” 

Wanda looked furious, and had ever since Steve Rogers -- big, beefy Steve Rogers, cardiologist who’d played rugby in his undergrad -- had whipped out the first, low-ball answer to Disney trivia, and hadn’t stopped since. 

Bucky was actually pretending to nap. Something curdled sourly in your stomach at his nonchalance, his bravado. When this theme had been announced weeks ago, Bucky had actually complained, pointing out that it was far too specific a category to be fair to anyone, and he and his teammates probably hadn’t even _seen_ a Disney movie in years. 

That was, evidently, true for Bucky, and possibly for Kayla, who was enjoying a plate of cheesy potato skins and flirting with Sam. Steve, though? Steve was on fire. 

“Christian Bale voices which character in _Po_ \--” 

_Buzz_. 

“Oh, for the love of God.” Wanda tossed her stylus; she wasn’t allowed to use the tablet during the trivia rounds, of course, but the pen had become something of a security aid for her, and throwing it to the grimey pub floor wasn’t a good sign. “Maria, come on.” 

An argument inevitably broke out, but Steve kept going. Within ten more minutes, you’d ordered a plate of nachos, and the Heartbreakers had won the trivia night -- every damn round -- flawlessly. 

“I’m not going to apologize,” Maria said firmly. “I have a ten year old, but that doesn’t mean I’m automatically a Disney expert.” 

“Did you study?” Wanda’s eyes narrowed, but Maria just rolled hers, muttering something about a _job_ and a _child_ and then Wanda’s voice hit that decibel that always indicated it was time to start drinking. 

As your teammates argued, you slid onto a stool at the bar and ordered a drink, having rescued the nachos along with you. 

Predictably, it didn’t take long for the soft spice of cologne to envelop you, his shoulder brushing yours as he climbed up to the stool beside you. “You look so pretty tonight, baby girl,” Bucky said, words slurring only _slightly_. “But I’m not used to you being so quiet -- during the rounds, y’know.” 

A roll of your eyes, and you leaned forward on the bar. “You could’ve warned us, you know.” 

He laughed. “Why would I warn my opponents that I have a little Disneyphile on my team?” 

“How does he even know that much?” 

“Steve’s been watching these movies since we were two. He knows everything. He even took an elective before PA school, a lit class that was all about Disney. On the other side of campus, at eight a.m. on Fridays, and that moron was there _early_.” 

“I was kind of banking on Maria handling tonight,” you admitted ruefully. “Work’s been a lot, and I thought, with being a mom…” 

“Work’s been a lot?” His brow furrowed in concern, and something in your belly leapt in response. “What do you mean?” 

A shrug; you were aiming for _haughty_ but who knew how it came off? “Nothing I can’t handle,” you said, ruffled slightly by his concern. “I’ve just got a student from the college shadowing me and I have to write out a couple extra reports, that’s all. No big deal.” 

Bucky grinned, but it was softer this time; something closer to _relief_ than you were comfortable with. “You know,” he said slowly, leaning closer, elbow brushing yours as he leaned forward on the bar. Heart pounding, you watched as his pinky finger nudged against yours. A sharp intake of breath at the brush of warm skin, but you _couldn’t_ let anything show. 

“I know lots of things,” you snapped, wrenching your hand away, hating the slick smirk of triumph on his face. “Spit it out.” 

“You’re cute when you’re flustered.” 

Did he _have_ to smell so good? Did he _have_ to look so cute? Stupid baseball cap, delicious scruff, blue eyes that reminded you of the slideshow on the Caribbean that Wanda had made in preparation for a geography night months ago. 

“I’m not flustered,” you rasped, turning away with a roll of your eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.” 

“Hey” -- the spicy musk of his cologne grew even sharper as he leaned closer -- “you mad that we won, baby girl?” 

Briefly, you weighed it: your team had been performing pretty flawlessly for most of the “season.” One night of runaway success for the Heartbreakers wouldn’t knock your team right out of the competition, but there was something so _obnoxious_ about the smug grin on Bucky’s face. 

Something close to resentment simmered in your veins as you found yourself pushing away from the bar, taking a step closer to Bucky, whose grin simply widened at your proximity. His tongue darted out, summoning some _very specific_ imagery, but you pushed it away. Nope. _Focus_. “Look, asshole,” you breathed, eyes flicking down to his lips only briefly. “You just --” 

“ _Ahem_.” 

The inflection was so familiar, you didn’t even bother turning around. _Wanda_ . She’d be furious, you imagined: sore after Steve’s victory, irritated at finding you fraternizing with the enemy _again_. “Hey, Dr. Maximoff,” Bucky said lightly, eyes never leaving yours. “How’s your night going?” 

No answer; just a hand clamping down on your wrist, tugging you away with a few muttered expletives. Anger brewed steadily at the adorable, disgusting smile on Bucky Barnes’ perfect face, and you snarled out a warning to _watch his back_ for next week. 

He laughed. And the smallest, tiniest, boldest part of you wanted to taste it. 

* * *

The week dragged by -- the twenty-five year old student assigned to your rotation was friendly enough, but a bit shy, and you spent most of the shared shifts trying to urge him to actually _engage_ with patients, and ask questions. He seemed intimidated by you, but absolutely _enraptured_ by Wanda, and you had to bite your lip one day in the cafeteria, when she’d swept in in a flurry of purple silk and a lab coat, pinning back her long red curls before sliding into the vacant seat next to Jason -- whose jaw had immediately dropped. And hadn’t _quite_ managed to pick itself up again. 

“Are you ready?” Wanda asked briskly, expertly slicing into an apple. “For the gala?” 

_Gala._ The word was pretentious, but that was fitting for Tony Stark’s retirement party, wasn’t it? Everyone else was content with a nice buffet dinner, some drinks and dancing, but this prick wanted an actual _gala_ at the historic hotel by the lake -- black tie and signature cocktails. He was a skilled and highly-respected cardiologist, who had done some groundbreaking research during the early stages of his career, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have arrogant tendencies and a bombastic approach to his own importance that often left a sour taste in your mouth. 

Not just yours; you’d once overheard Bucky complaining quite loudly about Tony’s extravagance and “well-fed ego.” 

Taking all that into consideration then, you were loath to actually show up to the event celebrating his early retirement -- even if his wife was going to be there. Pepper was possibly the only reason you could actually bring yourself to socially endure Tony and his jokes about now staying home to become a “trophy husband.” She single handedly operated a sizeable medical technology and research firm, _and_ had an urban gardening Instagram page that you followed religiously. 

She was, in a word, _awesome_. An accomplished, professional powerhouse of a woman. Inexplicably attracted to Stark, but you could deal for one night. 

Couldn’t you?

“Um, I guess,” you said, poking at your jello. “I’m going to wear that black dress.” 

Wanda pursed her lips, then looked Jason up and down. 

He actually _trembled_. 

“Are you single?” she asked, pushing a few apple slices over to him. “Do you have a date for the gala? Would you like to go with me?” 

Poor Jason; he swallowed thickly, and sent you a questioning glance. Wanda _did_ have a tendency to be rather abrupt when she had a plan in mind. A shrug was all you could give him -- he was a sweet guy, and she’d probably eat him alive, but if it wiped that lovesick puppy expression off his face during his shifts with you, all the better. 

You barely listened as Wanda gave Jason some rapid-fire instructions, mind drifting to the evening ahead. Two more days. A hair appointment, nails -- and the prospect of seeing Bucky Barnes in a suit. It had happened before, on a couple of occasions, including a James Bond theme night at the pub. It was always a distracting affair. 

Nerves trembled on the edge of something soft and fluttering, something you refused to indulge. And as Wanda left, after plucking in her number to Jason’s phone and landing a uncharacteristic kiss to the crown of your head (a busy, preoccupied Wanda was always strangely affectionate), you tried not to dwell on the prospect of showing up without a date to the party, nor seeing Bucky. 

A text came in, as Jason began to anxiously pepper you with questions. Smiling, you thumbed back a teasing response, and then tried to refocus. 

Two more days. 

* * *

It was impossible not to feel elegant with a flute of champagne in your hand, even though you were currently engrossed in a deep conversation about the merits of compost. Pepper Potts, with her young daughter clinging to one hand, was animatedly explaining the interesting science behind the process to a rather motley audience, including Sam Wilson, who leaned over to whisper in your ear, bewildered: “Is it okay if I’m grossed out?” 

A smile, and you tipped back the drink, enjoying the merry indulgence of the tickling bubbles. “You’re not alone,” you replied, glancing over your shoulder. The hotel ballroom, Art Deco in style, was filled to the brim with colleagues, patrons, and Stark family and friends. Every now and then, you spotted a familiar face, and began to wonder if the hospital had actually been left empty tonight. 

Morgan Stark peered up at you with a curious gaze, and you smiled down at her. Sam, though, a pediatrician, was better with children, and quickly handed off his drink to crouch down to her level. “Hey, honey,” he said softly, voice feathered and kind at the edges. “You having fun?” 

Midway through her passionate diatribe, Pepper paused to glance over at the sweet scene. The conversation quickly turned to Morgan’s recent swimming victory, and her junior robotics team. It seemed then was an appropriate time to take your leave, and you found yourself heading off in search of a server ready to take care of the empty glasses in your hands. 

The string quartet gently launched into another song, all lilting notes and sweeping strokes of violin and cello; you spent a few minutes at the edge of the dancefloor, simply enjoying the mesmerizing visual symmetry of the musicians, the dancers. Maria and Carol went sailing by, the former in lavender lace, and the latter in a navy dress showing off her toned back. 

She caught your eye over her wife’s shoulder with a grin; mouthed an, “ _I know, I know, I look good_ ” that had you rolling your eyes. 

“Looking for a partner, baby girl?” 

A voice that rasped and rolled against you like the whiskey he was nursing; you turned, steeling yourself for the sight you’d mostly managed to avoid all evening. Bucky Barnes, dark hair artfully coiffed; a deep blue suit that brought out the enticing gleam to his eyes; enough length to his beard now to have you thinking all sorts of things. And looking you up and down as though he was thinking some of those things, too. 

“No,” you said sharply, setting down the glasses on the table behind you and plopping down into the empty seat. “No way.”

“Come on,” he wheedled, sitting across from you. A wary glance over to where Wanda was tugging around Jason, who was practically drooling at this point. “Fancy party, you look good as hell, and we both know I’ve set a new standard for everyone in a suit…” 

Oh, and he _had_. There was something darkly delicious about Bucky Barnes dressed up like this; his cologne was sharper, too, and deeper. You wanted to lean forward, to let go, to feel the soft press of that suit under your fingers, and the rasp of his stubble, too. The gulf of the growing rivalry, though, and Wanda’s disapproving glare, were far too heavy a wedge, and you leaned back further, pushing away. 

The gleam faltered in his eyes, and you offered him a faint, wistful smile. “Sorry, Barnes,” you said softly, stroking the rim of the flute. Bucky watched you, the shimmer of polish on your nails catching the chandelier light beautifully. “Wanda’s rules.”

You studied him, the sputtering bravado, and a dejected, crooked grin. “Alright, baby girl,” he said. “We’ll play by the rules.” 

He didn’t sound nearly convinced. 

* * *

A dance with Steve, with Jason, and one terrifying, drunken turn about the dancefloor with Natasha -- the evening ended with a hug from Pepper, a slurred _Congratulations_ offered to Tony, and a sudden emotional attachment to Lloyd, your Uber driver. 

You weren’t _technically_ as drunk as you were trying to get everyone to think you were, but it certainly seemed to stop any protests from Nat or Maria, wanting you to stay later. Most of the crowd had seemed to thin down, anyway -- even Bucky and Sam had left early. 

“Thanks, Lloyd,” you mumbled, thumbing out the payment. “I hope your granddaughter’s recital goes well.” 

“Goodnight, sweetie,” he said, smiling broadly at you in the mirror. “You gonna be okay getting up there on your own?” 

“Mmhm…” Two flutes of champagne and two glasses of sparkling apple juice had helped you to lay that foundation for your drunken exit, and left you with a pleasant, cozy buzz. “I’m fine. Have a good night.” 

The spiky red heels came off in the elevator, and you found yourself plucking at the sweat-damp lace sleeves of your dress uncomfortably. A nice, quiet evening routine would be _perfect_ , you thought, punching in the buttons for your floor and dreamily thinking about pulling out those soft sweatpants, the baggy t-shirt you’d...misappropriated. It fit just right. Maybe a cool shower, to wash off the medley of perfumes clinging to your skin. A cup of tea, an episode of something on Netflix -- 

Key in the lock, and you dumped the shoes. Tossed the sparkly clutch somewhere near the kitchen counter, and headed for the living room. Curiously, there was a soft, peachy glow flowing out into the hallway. Nerves sparking, you stepped in quietly. 

“Welcome home, baby girl,” he said, voice hushed and soft and delectable. Sprawled out across the grey sofa he’d picked out at Ikea months ago, suit jacket flung haphazardly over the back of it. Arms stretched out, white sleeves rolled up to show off his tight, corded forearms. 

A tingling heat began crawling up your spine, and your gaze warmed under his slow, stroking survey. “Hi, Bucky,” you whispered, smiling in the fading light. “I missed you.” 

“Missed you, too.” He stood, and you watched as his chest strained at the white shirt, as he opened his arms for you to fit against him. “Wanna dance now?” 

A slow, kissable smile curled on those perfect, plump lips of his when you shook your head slowly. “Not that kind of dancing, honey,” you murmured, “and I’m gonna need some help out of this dress.”

His hands found your waist, his mouth covered yours, and the lace drifted down to your ankles. The night came warm and sweet and _long_ , melting to kisses and a stumbling walk backwards down the hallway, discarded clothing forming a breadcrumb trail to the bedroom you happily, blissfully _shared_. 


	4. Sounds Like...

A cotton candy sunrise poked its way through the bedroom window, casting a soft, pinkish light across the white duvet. Beside you, Bucky lay outstretched, sheets pushed down around his waist; bare chest rising and falling with his faint, tiny snores. He’d worked a long shift, stumbling home in the dark late last night, practically collapsing onto the couch right on top of you, crumpling the notes Wanda had sent you home with for the upcoming music trivia event. 

Soft, tender affection pooled warm and pretty in your veins as you snuggled closer to him, resting your head gently on his shoulder, fingers dancing through the hair dusting his chest, tracing the outline of the wing tattoo spread across his pectorals. Unfairly-thick eyelashes fluttered, and you pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “Good morning, baby girl,” he said hoarsely, rubbing at his eyes. “Mmm...you’re pretty.” 

“You haven’t even looked at me yet,” you laughed, wiggling closer as his arm wound around your waist. “I could have had a terrible accident in the night, rearranged my own face. An eye in the middle of my chin, something like that.” 

Morning breath kisses, but that was okay. Bucky rolled, half hovering over you with his hands pressed into the pillow under your head, and chained soft kisses down the curve of your jaw, your throat, pushing away the sheets as he went. “I’d still love you,” he said sweetly, fingers playing with the hem of _his_ t-shirt, one hand sliding underneath to cup your breast. “Even if you had an eye in the middle of your chin, or started growing an eyebrow down your nose.” 

“You’re so weird.” A smile he kissed away, thumb rubbing you gently, squeezing so soft. Oh, so he wanted _that_ , did he? “Bucky...I have work…” 

“In ninety minutes,” he corrected, kissing from your neck to nibble on your ear just briefly. A pretty shiver trembled through you, and then his hands found the waistband of your sweatpants, sliding underneath. “I can do a lot to you in less than that time.” 

You gasped, sharply, early pleasure rippling through your sleepy limbs as Bucky’s fingers dipped between your legs. It was slow, and decadent, and he slid up the t-shirt to kiss you there while his fingers stroked and beckoned. 

His name burst sweet and broken from your mouth as you began to pant, delicious heat tingling bright and heady, hips twitching up into his touch. Bucky’s cheeks flushed as he looked down to where his hand disappeared beneath your blue sweats, and you reached out a hand to touch the pink on his cheeks -- interrupted only by the soft trilling of your phone, on the bedside table. 

“Damn it,” you breathed. Bucky reached with his, um, free hand, and passed you the phone. 

“It’s Wanda.” He kissed you on the nose, fingers stilling but not leaving your pants. 

A deep, steadying breath; you wanted to keep your voice even, steady, as though Bucky didn’t currently have his hand cupped between your legs, and wasn’t pressing more kisses to your neck. “Hey, Wan,” you said brightly. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this egregiously-early call?” 

Bucky smothered his chuckle against your chest. 

“We need to go over some things,” came Wanda’s brusque tone. “We’re not ready for tonight. My sources tell me Barnes has been studying hard.” 

“ _Mm, he’s hard alright_.” You shot Bucky a warning glance, poking him on the nose and pushing him away from your right nipple. 

Sighing, you pinched the bridge of your nose and shut your eyes. “Listen, Wanda -- I don’t know who these _sources_ are” -- a faint twinge of disappointment when Bucky slid his hand away -- “but we’re as prepared as we can be. Ethan always does well with nights like these. Remember the Queen night? He blew them all out of the water.” 

Wanda launched into another spiel, something about season points and eliminating the competition. The obstetrics team had been eliminated a few weeks ago, sometime around the night of the gala, and Wanda’s new goal was to get Paw Patrol out of the game, too. 

Cool air suddenly rushed to your lower half; your eyes flew open, to see Bucky, eyes glinting mischievously, with his mouth hovering over you, having pulled down your sweatpants. He peppered kisses to your bare thighs as you glared at him. A question, in his gaze, the unspoken language of long-time lovers, even as Wanda prattled on in your ear. You bit your bottom lip, and gave him the smallest, bravest, cheekiest nod. 

He grinned, and dove in. 

A barely-suppressed _yelp_ struggled to come loose as Bucky worked between your legs, Wanda actually berating him as he set you _on fire_. “Mmhmm, yup,” you mumbled, vaguely aware that Wanda had asked you a question. 

“Are you feeling alright?” she asked, doctor-mode kicking in. “Seriously -- you sound strained.” 

“Just tired!” 

Bucky squeezed at your thighs, and then reached up one hand to find yours, guide it to his head. You smiled down at him -- he was so predictable. Wanted your attention on him, wanted something grounding him. Fingers stroking through his hair, your breath came quicker now. “Listen, Wanda, I’m sorry, I’ll -- _ah-uh_ \-- talk to you later, okay? I’ve...I’ve got the shower running. Gotta go!” 

Thumb pressing down on the end button far harder than it needed, your legs abruptly clamped down as Bucky did something _truly_ magnificent with his tongue. Breaking, shattering, you double-checked to make sure you’d hung up, before you let loose a long, shuddering, beautiful moan. 

* * *

A consultation first thing had ended earlier than anticipated; you walked the new patient to the reception area -- a college cheerleader who had suffered a significant injury on the field, halfway through a game. Several teammates had accompanied her and hovered anxiously in the waiting room. “She did _great_ ,” you said warmly, smiling when one girl reached out her hand for Lila’s duffel bag, and another started offering to treat everyone to something from the café down the street. “A fantastic first session. I’ll see you next week?” 

Lila nodded wearily, hands shoved into the pockets of her sweater as her friends bustled around. “You have my number,” you reminded her quietly. “Anytime. I mean it. And please, please don’t Web MD anything. Promise?” 

A grin; Lila swept back her lavender hair and gave you a shy nod. “Thanks,” she murmured. You could feel the exhaustion, the frustration, petering out in her voice. 

It had only taken you about five minutes to determine that Lila was a perfectionist. The preliminary report from her previous attending physicians had told you as much, and then Lila herself had mentioned how she had done that trick at least “a million times before.” 

“Physiotherapy and neurological rehab isn’t a competition,” you’d explained, hands folded on top of the butterfly-patterned clipboard Bucky had bought a few months ago, to brighten up the white, clinical space. “You’re not going to get a grade, or anything like that. This is about you and me and how we’re going to work together, okay?”

Some weeks would be more challenging than others, you added. “There are times I’m going to be your best friend, and times I’ll be a pain in your ass. Well, _another_ pain in your ass.” 

That earned you a surprised peal of laughter. 

The first time you could get a patient to laugh, it was as though something had shattered. Some pretence of propriety, of separation. They no longer thought of you as a name on the door, a weekly or bi-weekly appointment. It dismantled some fear, made you someone a little more human.

You grabbed your lunch bag from the break-room on the way back to your office. Small and utilitarian, but it was attached to the main clinic and had an adjoining door with Natasha. Silence from her side indicated she was free, too, so you sent her a quick text to come join you as you unwrapped the sandwich Bucky had made. 

There were little secret fingerprints of him all over your life, you thought wistfully. The clipboard, the lunch, the sweet little ache in your thighs where he’d gripped you this morning. And yet no one knew. Not even Nat. 

The secret simmered on your tongue as she sat down in the patient’s chair, tipping back a huge mug of coffee with a groan. “Long night?” you asked, scanning your phone for missed notifications. 

“Steve and I were FaceTiming until almost two a.m.,” she said, taking another swig. “We...we covered a lot.” 

You raised an eyebrow; she blushed. Natasha. _Blushed_. “Nothing like that,” she protested. “Just...talking. It was kind of cute, actually. He ordered me a pizza and had it delivered to my apartment, and…” She let her voice trail off, lips curving into a dopey smile. 

A blink. “So...you had a date?” 

"Shut up,” Nat snarled, shoving her phone back into her pocket. “We did _not_. It was just two people, video-chatting over deluxe cheese pizzas. No big deal. No candlelight. Well, I had a candle.” 

“Okay, sheesh.” You held up both hands in a sign of defeat. “That wasn’t a criticism, you know. I can see how much you like him, and I know he likes you.” 

Natasha sighed. “I know it’s a big hospital and everything, but...ugh, I don’t know. What if it doesn’t work out? What if the ‘forbidden romance’ goes away and Wanda has her conniption and then Steve and I are just _staring_ at each other?” 

“He seems like a fun guy to stare at,” you mumbled, reaching again for your phone at the sound of the distinct chime you’d set for Bucky. 

_Speaking of fun to stare at._

Bucky was making the most of his day off, it seemed -- _at the gym_. A smug smile peered up at you, taken in the bathroom mirror. Low slung-basketball shorts hung from his hips; abs rippling with the pose. The accompanying text sent heat hurtling through your nerves, and you nearly dropped the phone. 

_Damn him_. 

“Do you really think Wanda would freak out if you dated an enemy?” you asked, pushing your sandwich around, not daring to look at your screen as _another_ notification chimed in. “It’s just trivia. I think a lot of that intensity is just…” 

“It’s not even that.” Nat heaved another sigh, leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Dating someone at work -- it could be _great_ , or it could be awkward as hell. And there are so many overlaps, with these friend groups, and departments. I wouldn’t want to turn this into an episode of _Gre-_ ”

“ _Grey’s Anatomy_ ,” you finished, giving her a rueful smile. Bucky had said the same thing, months before, nearly a year now; when the relationship was still so new he giggled every time you touched him. 

In fact, over the ensuing months -- including when his lease came up and you both decided it was time to move in together -- there were many moments when you both faltered in your decision to keep it quiet. At first, it was practical; as time went on, the secret just became more _delicious._ Enticing, even. At each other’s throats during the trivia competitions, and then again, at home, in a _very_ different context. 

The relationship belonged only to you and to Bucky -- no one could speculate, or tease, or interfere. Conflicts were resolved privately; milestones celebrated quietly. It wasn’t for total lack of trust that you’d both elected to continue the secrecy so far -- just...it was _special_.

And you still had a good stock of trash talk that couldn’t go to waste. 

Natasha stood, stretched. “I’ve got an eleven o’clock,” she said glumly. “And then maybe I’ll text Steve.” 

“Hey” -- you reached out, squeezed her hand -- “if you like him, go for it. That’s all that matters.” 

A smile; an answering press of her fingers against yours. Trading in trust, in pretty secrets -- but you had nothing to give. Not yet, at least. 

* * *

It was _hard_ to avoid watching him walk around the bar; carrying a drink over for Steve and one for himself. Your eyes naturally drifted down the length of his chest, and your belly flip-flopped as you sat with the secret knowledge of every tattoo, the small divots and lines of childhood scars; the photos of his bare abs, burning on your phone. Bucky shot you a lascivious wink and you looked away, carefully training an expression of disgust at poor Ethan, who fumbled with his greasy mozzarella stick. 

“E-everything okay?” he asked, sucking at his fingers. “You seem…” 

“Unfocused,” snapped Wanda. “Come on, we’re heading into the next round.” 

Normally, music trivia was Ethan’s night, but you and Bucky had studied hard the past weekend, and Wanda was pleased that you’d already earned a hefty amount of points for your team. 

Up on stage, Bella took a deep breath and a sip of water. She looked a little worse for wear, but soldiered on. “Alright, we’ve got the Brainiacs and the Heartbreakers, ready to go. Next question -- in which American state is the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame located?” 

_Buzz_!

“Ohio,” said Bucky, smirking over at you. 

“What is the biggest-selling music single of all time?”

 _Buzz_! 

“Brainiacs?” Bella asked wearily. 

A smile aimed straight at Bucky. “That would be _Candle In The Wind_.” 

And so it went. Back and forth, back and forth, for another hour. More mozzarella sticks, a few facts about Johnny Cash (which you, admittedly, _let_ Bucky take); a whole slew of questions about _Thriller_ , and some classical music history queries -- the Brainiacs managed to squeak by with a win, by a narrow margin. Paw Patrol was still in contention, but the next week’s competition would determine the overall winner for the season. 

Steve came over for a stiff handshake with Natasha, while Wanda and Ethan threw their arms around you. A tingle of regret, as you caught Bucky’s rueful smile and brief thumbs-up -- you’d celebrate with him later tonight, but there was a kind of wistfulness about the ten feet between you both now. It just wasn’t quite clear how to cross it. 


	5. Holidays & Observances

“Mmm, you smell nice.” 

Bucky flashed you that crooked grin, the one you loved to kiss -- and turned back to the roaster filled with Brussels sprouts, carefully shaving from a block of parmesan, sprinkled liberally overtop. “You talking about the cologne or the cheese, baby girl?” 

You wound your arms around his waist, leaned against the soft press of his new sweater. “Both,” you breathed, snuggling against his neck. 

A quiet February evening; snow drifting softly outside, jazz drifting softly inside. The tiny apartment kitchen was filled with the rich scent of Bucky’s menu -- bacon-wrapped filet mignon, baked potatoes, and now, parmesan-roasted Brussels sprouts. Candles dotted the breakfast bar and the living room, and you’d laid out something pretty and lacy in the bedroom. 

Valentine’s Day. The first together; a year ago, any connection between the two of you had been limited to lingering looks across the ER or parking lot. Now, though, the world had compressed, into this intimate, cozy little scene. All that was needed was this deeper connection, this quiet. A shared glass of wine, a swift kiss to his stubbled cheek.

“How did Wanda handle the defeat last night?”

Hazy memories came floating back as you watched Bucky poke at the wrapped steaks -- everyone had been wearing pink or red, Nat having made matching headbands for the whole team with springy, glittery hearts bobbing on top. Questions about love poetry, rom-coms, famous couples throughout history -- and the Heartbreakers, fittingly, had wiped the floor with everyone else. 

A shrug, and you reached to pluck a fat strawberry from the bowl on the counter. “She was fine. Distracted by Jason,” you said, watching as Bucky began dicing up some carrots for the side. His fingers flexed; tendons shifting distractedly as he moved. “He was taking her out for dinner tonight.” 

Bucky raised his eyebrows. “The balls on him,” he whistled. “Nice.” 

You laughed as you headed over to the breakfast bar, began pulling out cutlery and plates to arrange the place-settings. Keenly aware of Bucky’s eyes on your back, you turned -- “What’s up?” 

Mouth pressed in a thin line, Bucky turned, leaning against the counter, hands braced by his sides. “D’you...do you wish we were out tonight?” he asked quietly. “Maybe I should’ve…”

"Hey.” Hands around his neck, a kiss to his lips. “This? This is perfect, Buck.” 

It was perfect: a quiet evening at home. So much of the relationship so far had been secret, a careful series of calculations, and though you were both sorely tired of it, tonight hadn’t taken much subterfuge. Nat and Steve had finally summoned the courage to defy Wanda, and had enjoyed an easy afternoon date the day before Valentine’s Day. A sweet, handmade card; flowers; an indoor picnic. 

And Wanda was far too distracted with Jason to be worried too much. 

Yet, there was something reassuring about shrugging off offers of inclusion, of a girls’ night out with Maria and Carol. Bucky, too, had pleaded a headache and made sure he was home for you -- he’d even been accosted by Kayla and her husband at the grocery store, who were quite surprised, he’d told you, to find him alone. 

But he wasn’t. And neither were you. And this day was for the secret -- for the sweet, treasured secret of the way his heart fit with yours. 

“Are you happy?” you murmured, nuzzling at his shoulder, breathing him in. “Is this okay for you?” 

Before he’d woken up, you’d propped a cartoonish card on his bedside table, characters from Toy Story promising him he was your favourite “pard’ner.” Hazelnut creamer in his coffee, and you on his lap -- his preferred way to start the day. A bouquet of flowers, in a riotous rainbow, sat now on your dresser in the bedroom, and he’d planned out this entire elaborate meal. It wasn’t a showstopping Valentine’s celebration -- certainly nothing like what others had been boasting of during the trivia match -- but it belonged wholly to the two of you. 

“I am,” Bucky said, voice heavy with hope, rasping with want. If there weren’t some tender filet mignons to be eaten, you might have pulled him into the bedroom that moment -- and if your phone hadn’t begun buzzing. 

“Shoot.” You released him, scarcely registering the distracted kiss to your temple as you scanned through the texts. 

Maria. 

And a few from Carol. 

Pressing on the latter’s name, you called her immediately. For Carol to text you “HELP,” you knew there was something terribly wrong. 

“Hey,” she answered, after barely one ring. “How are you?”

A moment of disorientation; she seemed fine. “What’s going on?” you asked quickly. “I’ve got four messages from you, and a couple from Maria. What’s up?” 

Carol sighed, and you knew her well enough to picture her running her fingers through her hair, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. “It’s not...it’s not an emergency, okay, I’m sorry. We panicked. Our babysitter just called; she’s got the flu and can’t come over tonight.” 

Your stomach sank; it was easy to predict where this was going. “It’s not just Valentine’s Day,” Carol said softly. “You know. It’s our anniversary, too, and I got reservations at this amazing restaurant, Maria’s been dying to go for months and I…” 

Bucky stooped to slide the Brussels sprouts in the oven, humming quietly as he reached in one swift movement for another strawberry. At this rate, there’d be none left to go with the chocolate lava cakes he’d made. 

_“In Ireland, what object was a heart traditionally carved into, in order to prove a man’s worth and ability?” Bella read from the trivia card, printed on aggressively-pink paper._

_“A lovespoon,” Bucky said, eyes finding yours, and every look was a touch, every wink a promise. How had he known that, you wondered? How had so much pretty, arcane knowledge settled itself in his quick mind? And how was there so much room for you, too? That he remembered your favourite colours, your favourite songs. The way you took your coffee. The name of your favourite patient._

_Later, at home, face buried in his chest as he stroked your back, you’d asked. And he’d chuckled, fingers tickling your spine. “I don’t keep you in my head, baby girl,” he’d whispered. “I’ve got you in my heart.”_

The memory, recent and sweet, swept over you in the same cool rush of disappointment as you heard yourself agreeing to help out Maria and Carol, and hanging up. They just needed you to watch Monica, help with her homework, put her to bed. A wedding anniversary, a special restaurant -- of course they wanted to get out. 

It took all of ten seconds for Bucky to suss it out; with a sigh, he turned back to the stove, shoulders sinking. “You’re a good friend,” he said quietly. 

"And a shit girlfriend,” you muttered. 

His eyes widened at that, and he launched, reaching to tug you back against him. Bucky’s arms were warm, and tight, and he smelled so good -- like home, and something safe. “I didn’t mean that,” he corrected, kissing your forehead. “I’m proud of you for being so thoughtful, and I don’t mind saving this for when you get home, okay?” 

_Here_ was the downside of the secret. Carol and Maria probably wouldn’t have called if they’d known you were home with your boyfriend; and yet, you knew, you’d felt it brimming on your lips on the phone -- you could’ve just said. Just told the truth. “I’m in love with Bucky and we’re having steak tonight.” 

But there was so much weight to it, so much unsaid. Too much to unpack. 

“Bucky.” Your voice seemed small in the apartment, watching as he started blowing out the candles, turning off the jazz. “Do you...I mean, I know the secret made sense at first, and it’s kind of fun, but do you ever think...do you ever think that we’re being a little…” 

Was there even a word for it? 

A smile -- boyish, crooked, and utterly yours -- unfurled on his stupidly-perfect face, and Bucky swooped down for a quick goodbye kiss. “You want to talk about going public?” he asked eagerly. “Really?” 

You squeezed his hand, touched his smile. “Yeah, when I get home?” 

“Sounds good to me, baby girl.”

* * *

Monica was easy. Content and polite and eager only to stay up an extra thirty minutes to finish a penguin documentary. You scrolled through your phone as you listened to her brushing her teeth, checking out a website for Olympics trivia -- Wanda had added to your binder at home, but you’d left it with Bucky. 

And oh, wouldn’t that make her mad? 

It was nearly eleven-thirty by the time Carol and Maria came stumbling happily in, each shushing each other heartily and trying not to trip over the shoe rack near the door. “Hey,” Carol said, beaming, eyes sparkling with the night and the champagne you could smell on the air. “You’re awesome. Have we told you that?” 

A drunk Carol was always an affectionate Carol; as Maria fumbled with the boxes of leftovers and her evening clutch, Carol pecked her wife insistently on either cheek, over and over again. “You’re so pretty,” she hummed with a lopsided grin. “I’m so lucky. You’re pretty, and you’re smart, and you aren’t afraid of spiders, so you can kill them for me…”

Something soft and sad clenched in your stomach as you watched the free, easy affection. As a slightly-more-sober Carol handed over the cheesecake they’d bought for you from the restaurant. As Monica stirred and padded out to see her mothers, sleepy and disoriented in a pair of avocado-patterned pajamas. 

The urge to tell them burst bright and pretty on your tongue. It would be so easy, and they would be so happy. And it was all pretty silly, wasn’t it? Hiding the relationship because of a pub trivia competition, because of work, because of a soap opera. 

But no -- you needed to talk to Bucky. And more than that, this was their night. Celebrating eight years of marriage; celebrating their daughter. The life they had built, with strength and resilience and so much laughter. Carol slung her arms around your neck and offered to call you a cab; but you’d already made arrangements. You said goodnight, and stepped out into what remained of the holiday. 

He waited outside, hands flexing on the wheel, wearing sweatpants and a thick hoodie against the February chill. Bucky’s eyes widened in interest at the box in your hand, and even more when you kissed him. Leaning over the console, a kiss that scalded and comforted all at the same time. “Well” -- his voice, once you’d released him, came out in a croak -- “I guess you missed me, huh?” 

It wasn’t as simple as that, you thought, but didn’t know how to put into words. The longer this secret went on, the harder it would be to untangle. And yet, as you buckled yourself in, playfully snapped at him not to touch the cheesecake, and turned up the radio -- it needed to happen. 

Because that stupid-handsome fool, singing loudly along to Lizzo next to you? 

That love needed to be screamed from the rooftops. 

It deserved it; it had earned it. 

And so had both of you. 

* * *

The city was quiet; snow blanketing the grubby sidewalks and busy streets with a feathered kind of calm. Bucky talked a little, about how he’d saved the dinner for tomorrow night, and had had cereal for dinner instead. “I did, however, see the little present you left in the bedroom,” he said slyly, tongue darting out to lick his lips as he pulled into the parking garage. 

“Oh, you did?” Whispery lace and silk, in his favourite colour. A grin when he reached out to squeeze your thigh. 

“I did.” His voice was huskier now, that gentle roughness you loved to hear. “I don’t think it’s my size, though, baby girl.”

Laughter, with Bucky, was never far away; you tipped your head back and relished that simple, utter joy as he kept the joke going, teasing you about his hips and how damn good he looked in blue. 

But the laughter and his teasing weren’t enough to drown out the tiny, whimpering mewl coming from the battered, soaked cardboard box near the elevator entrance. It took Bucky all of three seconds to kneel next to it, reaching a gentle hand in to cup the wriggling, wet bundle of fur. 

In some faint, cold shock, you watched as he cradled the kitten, its grey fur blending seamlessly with his sweater. “Baby girl,” he murmured, looking up at you with those pretty ocean eyes, the ones that got him whatever he wanted. Emotion gleamed there, but you were already gone, already convinced. Setting down the box of cake, you knelt next to him on the freezing pavement, checking in the box to see only a ratty towel, and no sign of other kittens. 

The kitten squirmed weakly against Bucky, who quietly began whispering reassurances to it, calling it a “ _sweet thing_ ,” and stroking the top of its head softly. “We can’t leave it,” he said firmly. 

“Of course we can’t,” you agreed. “Let’s take it up; we can call a vet in the morning and see what we should do.” 

You knew him well enough, though, smiling warmly as he carefully stood, tucking the kitten more firmly against him to shelter it from the biting winter wind as it snaked through the parking garage. “Happy Valentine’s Day, baby girl,” he said as you punched the elevator button for the main floor. 

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Bucky,” you murmured, kissing his cheek. “It was the best one yet.” 


	6. Chemistry

“Tequila.” 

“No.” 

“Whiskey?” 

“ _No._ ” 

“Absinthe.” 

“Bucky!” 

You were half-tempted to kiss away the mischievous grin on his face, if only because he was making himself sound like a desperate alcoholic in the middle of a _pet_ store. He looked downright delicious, anyhow, on this early Saturday morning; rumpled from sleep, lips probably sweet from the maple syrup on his pancakes. Black joggers, a t-shirt that skimmed temptingly over his abs; baseball cap perched blithely -- it was all you could do not to tug him out to the parking lot and his car, head back to the apartment to kiss the day away. 

And yet, there were things to do. Domestic rituals had always held their own unique sort of appeal -- both in the headier, early days of the relationship, when watching Bucky fold his socks had taken on a seductive air; and now, on the threshold of a new challenge, a new step in love. 

A week had passed since the softly-disastrous Valentine’s Day, and the discovery of the kitten in the cardboard box. In that week, Bucky had actually taken a day off work, paid his mother to come and look after the newest member of the family, and spent his downtime surfing online for “research.” 

“What,” you’d asked, just last night, leaning over his shoulder fresh from the shower, to see him reading a text-heavy article on heart health in older cats, “are you doing?” 

“Trying to be a good pet parent,” he’d said firmly, and he echoed that now, plucking yet another tinkling ball from the shelf. The shopping cart was full almost to the brim with toys, accessories, food, and treats. The kitten had been eating her meals from two kitchen bowls since returning from a stint at the vet clinic; now Bucky was determined that she would feel at home with her own set -- glittery pink, of all things. 

“You’re gonna spoil her,” you warned, comparing the calorie count of two cans of “fish feast,” whatever that was. Then wondered briefly if calories even _mattered_ for animals? Was she going to be concerned about water weight? Tuna going straight to her hips? 

Bucky shrugged, and began poking at a few bags of treats. “She deserves it,” he said simply. “She also deserves a name. Come on, the vet needs one for her file. She’s listed as Kitty Barnes right now.” 

“Yeah, about that. Why does she automatically get _your_ last name?” 

A grin unfurled; sweet and spicy. The familiar thrill -- that the smile was for _you_ , that it was yours to taste -- flickered through you, and, trying to distract yourself, the two cans of food clattered to the bottom of the cart, and you turned to face a shelf of dog food. “What’s the matter, baby girl?” Bucky purred, taking a step closer, enveloping you in that lovely spiced musk. One hand reached out to squeeze at your arm; lips sliding dangerously close to the spot just behind your ear -- “You jealous? Want my last name, too?” 

_Thump._

Not your heart; a man had dropped a bag of kibble at the other end of the aisle, but it was with some smothered shock that you turned to look at Bucky. Blue eyes widened, as though he’d surprised even himself. “I, uh…”

Marriage had never come up. Not in any real way. It lingered at the edges of every kiss, every sigh, every midnight rustling of the bedsheets. Quietly, it seemed, the two of you had carved a kind of language, one that held back room for the word, for the concept, for the _promise_ , but hadn’t let it yet be spoken. 

A year. Long enough for some; not nearly so for others. And where would it be for the two of you? “Bucky,” you murmured, reaching out to cup his jaw. To trace the rasp of stubble there, to love the patch of grey emerging. “If you propose to me in a pet store, I’m going to feed you Fancy Feast for the rest of your life, okay?” 

Surprise melted to amusement, and he tipped back his head. He had the best laugh in moments like this, as though it had been coaxed out of him against his will. Told a joke when he was blue; the responding joy brimming out the edges. A cup overflowing, and he was all yours. 

You stamped a quick, reassuring kiss to his cheek before turning back to the cat food, but not before something pretty, almost sparkling had caught your eye. “Hey,” you said slowly, wheels turning. “You wanted a name for her?” 

Bucky nodded. “And you’re totally opposed to naming her after alcohol, right?” 

A roll of your eyes. “Yes, unbelievably enough. But how about that?” You gestured to the large sack of kibble, patterned with light blue stripes and a gorgeous mountain scene splashed under the logo. “I like it.” 

“I don’t know, babe. ‘Puppy Chow’ seems like kind of an insensitive name for a kitten.” 

“I was talking about _Alpine_. _Alpine Puppy Chow_. Alpine is kind of pretty, right?” 

It was sugar on your tongue; a gentle, sweet name. Something to coo in the mornings, when she padded at Bucky’s chest, eager for him to wake up and play; a name that tickled, a name that soothed. Cool, fresh wind. 

And perfect for the tiny, mischievous white kitten that had somehow stolen your boyfriend’s heart right out from under your nose. 

“Alpine,” Bucky repeated. “Yeah. I like that. I like that a lot.” He smiled. “How do you always know the right answer?” 

He wrapped an arm around your waist and tugged you closer, kissing your forehead. “Mmm, fifty points to _me_ ,” you purred, squeezing at his biceps. “Come on, Heartbreaker. You need to pick a collar and then we can go _home_.” 

Bucky smiled, reaching for a kitten collar patterned with pink stars. It was sweet, really, and fascinating: this new level of attentiveness that had been brought out in him by the arrival of the kitten -- well, Alpine. A sort of paternal energy. 

He’d handled the vet files, the intake forms and inoculations. Booked appointments and future check-ups for her. Taken the lead on research for the best food brands, and even what kind of toys would be most suitable for her energy levels and development. It was overboard, the kind of fastidious attention to detail that had characterized his work in the ER for as long as you’d known him.

And you loved him for it. 

Indulgently, you swipe another jangly toy from the shelf and a collar with a bow on it. “For special occasions,” you joked, stealing a light kiss from his slow grin. “Let’s get home, honey.” 

The pet name was sweet on your lips as you rounded the corner, the ghost of it tickling still the fumbling, nervous butterflies in your stomach as you lingered on the significance of Bucky’s earlier quip about his last name -- and it shot from you in a jagged curse as you jolted back, leaving the shopping cart jutting out from the aisle end. 

“Baby girl?” Bucky blinked, confused, setting back a small tin of food as he approached, hands sliding to the crook of your elbows. “You good?” 

“I’m gonna…” The words came out in a plaintive hiss, and you pushed him forward. They’d already seen the cart. And you didn’t want to -- you couldn’t. Not like this. Not without planning. 

Bucky’s brow furrowed in concern, and he wasn’t going to let you go. “What’s --”

“Barnes?” 

Maria’s voice came out as pretty and smooth as usual, lilting on the curve of her accent, and dripping now with faint confusion. Slowly, you turned, Bucky’s hands still gripping you tight, offering her a sheepish smile. A tick in her jaw, and she tightened her grip on the cart in front of her, your name curling out with a little bit of an edge. But that was Maria -- she didn’t like unanswered questions. 

And this? Well, this was a question no one had even thought to ask.

* * *

“How long?” Maria asked, taking a sip of her iced coffee and deftly putting her phone to silent. 

To your small surprise and relief, there was little judgement in her tone or reaction. In fact, she’d been more bewildered by the cat food and toys piled high in the cart than Bucky’s hands on you. 

A quiet twenty minutes had passed in the store; Maria was almost done shopping, but had awkwardly requested meeting up at the café. Checking his watch, Bucky had said he’d drop the supplies and food off to the kitten -- to Alpine -- and make sure she was okay before returning. It was her first time home alone since she’d mastered (well, mostly) the litter box, and he was worried for the couch and his record collection. 

Maria was uncharacteristically silent through ordering the coffee, texting Carol she’d be home a little later than planned. She offered a brief explanation of the guinea pig cage and supplies in her cart -- “ _For Monica’s birthday_ ” -- and then, while standing in the line at the café, waiting to order, had gripped your hand so quickly it registered almost more as a compulsion. 

No judgement, of course. Not for being with Bucky. Just _the time_. 

“Months,” you whispered, poking abashedly at the crumbling muffin in front of you. “We live together.”

She nodded, lips tightening. “Okay. And there’s a cat?” 

It all seemed so silly now. The secret. Lies. Nat had pushed you to go on a blind date with her cousin a few weeks ago, and you’d faked sick and stayed in to watch _Mean Girls_ with Bucky. That was stupid. Immature. Affected. 

But God, wasn’t the secret of it delicious? 

“Why?” Maria asked softly, reaching for your hand again, her other coming up to swipe dry the few tears squeezing out. 

_Crying_? You were _crying_?

Taking a deep breath, you prepared to launch into the explanation you’d rehearsed so many times over the past several months. But as the secret had grown bigger, the story had grown longer, and you felt the need now -- the bitter, burning need -- to explain yourself in full. To justify your silliness. 

But all that came out was the truth. Short, but pretty. 

“Because I love him.” 

Something close to awe settled in Maria’s warm brown gaze, and her lips parted in a beam. “I knew it. Carol’s gotta repaint the bathroom now.” 

“Wait -- what?” 

Maria leaned back in her chair, taking another sip of her coffee wearing a triumphant smile. “It came up over dinner a few months ago,” she explained, shaking her head. “Carol knew somebody at work, some radar tech, and thought he might be a good match for you. We were going to suggest a double date some night, but then realized we didn’t really know your type. Carol brought up Barnes.

“She said there was something between you two. Some kind of chemistry. And I started watching, and realized -- yeah, there _was_. We made a bet about you guys getting together before the end of the trivia season, and so...I’m getting my bathroom painted in _Lazy Caterpillar_ green.” She winked. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

A buzzing sound filled your ears, drowning out the clink of dishes and the slow, jazzy strains of the radio. You’d been so careful. Lied and deflected so cautiously to preserve the decadent secret of loving Bucky and having that love all to yourself, and people could read it all so plainly. 

It was _ridiculous_. 

You were still laughing, Maria right along with you, when Bucky stepped into the café, a tinkle of the bell sending you into a deeper fit of giggles. The cute side of manic, you hoped, reaching for him and wrapping your arms around his neck as he shot a questioning look across to Maria, who just shook her head again. “Don’t look at me,” she said, snatching the muffin out from in front of you. “Your girlfriend here was just confessing to your whole secret romance. It is just ‘girlfriend,’ right? You two aren’t married, right?” 

Bucky barked out a laugh, gently disentangling himself from your embrace, but gripping your hand affectionately before you could even let out a protest. That was new. Public affection. Holding hands in a café. 

Your belly tightened and you wanted to kiss him -- the urge burned bright inside you, as though it were the early days again, when every moment was a revelation, a new layer of love. Bucky’s eyes met yours and you could see the burn there, too. Chemistry, Maria had called it. 

More like alchemy, you reasoned. Something too close to magic to define. 

“At first,” Bucky began slowly, not breaking his gaze -- “at first, it was just easier to keep it quiet. You know how it is, when a relationship is new. Especially at work. We just wanted to focus on each other. And then the trivia nights started, and it was kind of...it was kind of sexy to pretend. Nobody knew we were going home together.” 

“I’m going to stop you right there,” Maria said, wincing at the word ‘sexy.’ Bucky barely suppressed his grin. “Look, I’m not judging the secrecy, really. I get it. Carol and I kept things quiet because we had friends in common early on, too. It was easier to build that foundation when we didn’t have a million people making comments or offering ‘advice.’” 

Any wrinkle, she continued, would be how people reacted to the revelation of the relationship. “You’ll have to talk to HR,” she reminded you, finishing up her coffee with a noisy slurp. “Fill out some disclosure forms for the relationship, but that’s no big deal. But remember, you guys didn’t just not tell us you were dating or living together. You pretended like you were rivals, with the smack talk and the cheesy flirting” -- this with a pointed look at Bucky, who sputtered out a protest -- “so some people might...have their feelings hurt.” 

_Wanda_. 

Maybe Nat. Possibly Steve. 

An unpleasant flutter of nerves in your stomach had Bucky instinctively squeezing your hand. “We’ll explain it to them, when the time is right,” he said firmly, nodding at Maria. “Thanks for understanding. But there’s a way we can do this to limit damage.” 

“Damage?” she echoed warily. 

“Yeah. Friendships. The competition.” 

You tried to imagine how these conversations might go. Maria had a point -- the two of you hadn’t just kept the relationship quiet; you’d actively worked to conceal it, to throw people off the scent. People you cared about. Friends. As though Wanda really would have cared if you’d told her you were sleeping with the competition, were in _love_ with the competition. 

Under the harsh lights of the coffee shop, Maria’s faint disappointment doing very little to bolster her smile now, the full weight of it all hit you. And Bucky, in the same breath. The foolishness of it. 

“I’m sorry,” you said quietly, looking down at the table. “I just…”

“No.” Maria reached over, took your hands. “I’m not asking for an apology. You didn’t do anything wrong. If you guys wanted to have six kids in secret, that’s your business. I’m just saying that...damn it, guys, love is special and important. You deserve to show it off. We’ve just got to prepare for a few hurt feelings at the outset, that’s all.”

Bucky loosened his hand, slung an arm over your shoulders and tugged you closer to his chest. Breathing in the familiar scent of him, plucking a few white cat hairs from his shoulder -- you realized how right she was. Reflections from only a week ago, that this love deserved to be shouted from the rooftops, surged forward again, and you knew. 

There were two more trivia nights. This week, and the one before Bucky’s birthday in March. Less than a month away. 

Then you’d tell them. You planned on rearranging things, hosting the party at home now. At the apartment you shared. With the kitten you both loved. A glance up at Bucky, who bit at his bottom lip as though he’d very much like to to kiss you right then -- you knew he was on the same page. 

“You’re right,” you said, snuggling back down against his chest. Your safest place. “You’re right.” 

Maria smiled. And in the breadth of that, you found your nerves steeled, and your mind resolved. You’d find the right words, you and Bucky together. And the announcement, when it came, would be calm and logical and mature. Entirely under control. 

* * *

“What the _hell_?” 

As it always did when stressed, Wanda’s accent came out thicker and more robust. Her rage, at the moment, seemed to swallow up any camaraderie that the loaded plate of grilled chicken nachos had ushered in with its delivery to the table. 

It was Olympics trivia night, and Kayla of the Heartbreakers had abruptly revealed herself to be an _expert_. You’d touched the buzzer only once tonight, and she hadn’t stopped. Wanda was furious, and even more perturbed, for some reason, that Bucky wasn’t in attendance. 

“Irresponsible,” she muttered darkly, not for the first time tonight, as Kayla hammered out yet another correct response, this one about when tennis had been reintroduced to the Summer Olympics. 

Wanda’s irritation and Ethan’s nervous twitching could do little to distract you from the worry pooling in the pit of your stomach. Across the table, Maria caught your eye and arched a brow. You weren’t able to use your phone during the competition, and you were worried. Bucky hadn’t mentioned being late. He was going to go home to feed Alpine and play with her for a few minutes before heading to the pub. 

It was unusual. And you were suddenly desperate to hear from him. What if the weather was bad? The roads were slick with black ice at this time of year. Or what if there was something wrong with Alpine? 

In your pocket, your phone buzzed. Once, twice, three times. Kayla answered another question correctly, before Bella had even finished announcing it, and Wanda swore viciously. 

He was _an hour_ late. 

“I’ve got to go,” you whispered to Wanda, sliding from the stool. “I-I’m not feeling well.” 

She blinked at you, confused, as you reached for your jacket, your purse, stammering out disjointed apologies. The worry bloomed and burned, until you couldn’t picture anything but Bucky’s car, twisted and tangled around a pole. Fumbling with your phone, fingers slick with sweat, Wanda chattering in your ear, complaining about your lack of commitment, and Kayla was chirping something about men’s trampolining, and what if something _bad_ had happened, and --

The doors of the pub swung open, ushering in a bracing gust of winter wind. He smelled of snow, and it clung to his hair in flakes; nose red from the cold, and a smile brimming wide. Tinged with a cocky edge, because he was playing the part. Trivia team rivals, that was the play, right? The ruse. 

But you were so tired. “Are you okay?” you asked, voice coming out small and chilled. Bucky’s smile dropped at the sound, and that was it, that was the end. You needed him, and he needed you. 

His hug was warm and tight, arms wrapping around you in a familiar, consuming squeeze. You tucked your face against his shoulder, the stubble on his neck scraping a little; his skin was so cold. But he was home, and yours. 

A kiss to your forehead, a murmured explanation. “Allie ran out,” he murmured. “I went to go check the mail and she darted down the hall. I had to chase her, and then someone accidentally let her outside. I’ve got her. She’s safe, but she was scared.” 

The weight of all the bad things that _could_ have happened weighed heavily upon you as you leaned against Bucky, suddenly quite aware of the silence from the pub outside of this little bubble of him, and his kiss, and his quiet reassurances. A deep breath, one he shared, hands rubbing at your back as you turned to face them all. 

Wanda’s face was pale and tight with an emotion you couldn’t identify; Steve looked absolutely dejected, and Nat? 

Nat just took a coy sip of her drink, straw disappearing between two plump red lips, curling into a cold but amused smile. 

“So,” she asked, voice coming out smoky and swift. “How many points do we win if we correctly guess what the hell is going on here? ‘Cause I’ve got a theory.”


	7. Four Letter Words

As a word, ‘awkward’ didn’t quite cover it. 

You blinked, feeling Bucky practically squirming by your side. But, to your immense relief, his hand engulfed yours with a gentle, welcome warmth that, despite the petulant flicker of irritation in your stomach, was soothing. Comforting. No matter how this went, Bucky was there. 

His crooked smile gave you a little jolt of strength, and you turned back to face your friends. Teammates. A tipsy Bella hiccuping the announcement that the Heartbreakers had won this round, and would return in the final to face off against the Brainiacs. 

_Ironic_ , you thought dimly, a laugh tickling at the back of your throat -- looking at the pub now, it was clear to see the two teams were already squaring off. 

Steve looked -- dejected. That was the word. Shoulders sinking as he looked from his best friend to you and back again. Mentally calculating all the little inconsistencies over the past several months, including Bucky’s sudden move to a new apartment and interest in decor. Guilt dripped down into the irritation, melding there sourly, as you realized the depths of the deceit where _he_ was concerned: that you had cleared the apartment of so many touches of yourself before game nights with Bucky, even purposefully leaving the kitchen a royal mess to toss his childhood friend off the scent. 

And why? 

None of it seemed to matter in that moment, as Natasha sucked the last of her drink and smacked her lips with some satisfaction. An emerald gaze found Steve’s first, and then yours. 

And it _burned_

“Should we order more drinks?” she asked, voice ringing, scraping. Even Steve winced. 

Bucky’s grip tightened on yours. 

“Why don’t you come over?” you blurted, not sure where the idea had come from -- only that you wanted to be _home_. Home in your space, the place built on love and humour and the sweet secret you and Bucky had only been trying to enjoy. Not covet; not hoard; not deceive. Just enjoy. Savour. 

Maybe -- and this thought was small, and fragile, but persistent now -- maybe if Nat and Steve and Wanda could _see_ the way you were together, you and Bucky, in your home and -- 

“You live together?” Nat’s eyes widened as she made a few connections for herself. “In your apartment?” 

Bucky cleared his throat, loosening his grip on your hand to wind an arm around your waist. “Our apartment,” he said firmly, face breaking into a broader smile as he looked over at you. “And yeah, I think we should do this there. Is that okay, Stevie?” 

Hands shoved in his pockets, Steve gave a quick nod, eyes sliding away from yours quickly. Your stomach sank at that; and more still at Natasha’s crisp insistence that she was hungry, and wanted some food while she “dealt with this.” 

Ooh, that irritated you. 

“What do you mean ‘deal?’” you snapped, meeting the flash of her gaze head-on. “We didn’t commit a crime, Nat.” 

A smirk, and she set down her glass rather harder than necessary. Remaining ice rattled; and Steve jumped. “Oh, yes you did,” she shot back. “I’ve been _robbed_ of the opportunity to tease one of my best friends for dating _Bucky Barnes_.” 

The pause was big enough to sit in. Do a backflip. Jog around and get to know the place. And in it, something better bloomed. Nat had a hell of a poker face, you knew, but even she couldn’t keep the mirth from her eyes as a laugh trickled out, growing and growing until it lit up the whole room. She stepped forward, throwing her arms around your neck and pushing Bucky aside in one swift movement. 

“Oh my God, your _face_ ,” she wheezed, breathless with laughter against your shoulder. “It was like I was about to murder you both.” 

Relief was spicy French perfume and the sweet bite of alcohol, enveloping you in a smell and a feel so uniquely and blissfully Natasha. Over her shoulder, Steve mustered a rueful half-smile, and Wanda simply ducked her head, typing in something on her tablet, red spots in her cheeks burning brighter than you had ever seen them before. Still, you couldn’t quite translate her expression, and that left you uneasy, almost jumpy, even as Steve stumbled his way over to the bar, promising to order some nachos, and Bucky tugged you away. 

In the car, you finally managed to take a deep, steadying breath. Bucky fumbled with the keys, avoiding your face, and drove home in relative silence, reaching out to grasp your hand over the console. The warm, dry press of his skin against yours was reassuring, a memory. 

Four or five times, something threatened to come out. A question, a comment. And four or five times, you swallowed it whole. Kept down the lingering, persistent doubts. Natasha’s initial response was _welcome_ , certainly, but maybe that was only politeness? 

Everything Maria had said in the café came rushing back, a noisy flurry in your ears as Bucky wound his way through the ice-slick night. _Hurt feelings_. She’d said to be prepared for those, and they were clear enough to read in Steve’s expression. 

Beside you, a muscle ticked in Bucky’s jaw. You wondered, briefly, if he was thinking of those years of friendship, how he’d chipped away at some of that trust by hiding this part of himself. All those nights he’d had Steve over to the new apartment, carefully excising elements of a life shared, going as far as to shove your toiletries into a cardboard box and hide them under the sink. 

_That_ now seemed utterly ridiculous. Embarrassing, really. “Honey,” you said softly, letting it loose and syrupy-soft onto the tense, taut air. But there was nothing more to say; no question on the end. Just a reminder. A little anchor in the night. 

“I know, baby girl,” Bucky sighed, squeezing your hand. “I know.” 

* * *

Nerves cluttered your mind as you paced back and forth on the living room floor. For the first time, when anticipating a visit from friends to this apartment, neither you nor Bucky had bothered to stuff away photos and clothes; the matching coffee mugs sitting out on the drying rack. Instead, you set out a plate of cheese and crackers, wiped down the counters. Tucked away Bucky’s sneakers and yoga mat. A candle leftover from Valentine’s Day lent the apartment a buttery glow, but also forced Bucky to sit down on the couch cradling Alpine. 

“Who’s Daddy’s little pyro, huh, sweetie?” he cooed, smiling as she pushed her head up into the cup of his palm. “No setting fires tonight. We’ve got _guests_. And your mother is _totally relaxed_ about that.” This with a pointed glance up at you. “Sit down, baby girl. They’ll text when they’re here.” 

“What’s taking them so long?” you hissed. 

“Steve texted a few minutes ago, while you were getting changed.” Bucky’s voice was calm, measured. “He said there was a problem with the nacho order so they’re going to be a little delayed, that’s all.” 

“He texted? What did he say?” 

A yawn split Bucky’s pretty lips; he looked too damn cute when he was tired. And this week was clearly weighing on him. He had a twelve hour shift on Sunday, too. Another wave of upset burned sourly inside; a keening note of frustration that you hadn’t been permitted to execute this reveal in a way that was more..beneficial. “Just what I said, baby girl,” he said, sinking back deeper into the couch. “But I’m sure he’s fine with it. Probably wishes we woulda told him sooner, but he’ll be okay.” 

“Buck…” The thought had occurred to you more than once since the conversation with Maria, and now combined with this interminable waiting, it took larger shape. “Do you think we’re being a little...dramatic?” A wince chased the words. 

Sighing, Bucky scrubbed his free hand down his face; new stubble scraped along his palm, and he shifted to sit upright; Alpine complained heartily. “Look...we had our reasons. Like we told Maria. And we’re all adults here.” 

Wanda’s face came swimming back. Pinched and furious, you imagined. Nat, initially amused, but perhaps that had festered by now. Had you left too soon? Hadn’t even properly finished the evening at the pub. Instructions and announcements probably would’ve been made about the final. Next week. One more game left before Bucky’s birthday. 

Every point accumulated in the last several months would come down to this night, added to the total between the Heartbreakers and the Brainiacs. Despite Kayla’s sweep tonight, your team was well in the lead -- but there were more important questions to be answered first. 

Where were you with your team? With your _friends_?

A petulant sense of injustice reared its head then. Bucky could see it coming, and heaved another sigh. “Okay, okay, that’s my cue. Want my advice, baby girl?” 

“No,” you snapped, suddenly seething. “Wanda’s dating Jason! And Nat and Steve finally gave up on the dumb rivalry. Why shouldn’t we be together? Why are we being punished?” 

“We’re not,” he pointed out, a smile twitching at his lips. “Technically.” 

“Don’t you use logic on me, Barnes.” You resumed pacing. “The lengths we went to, to keep this quiet. It was ridiculous. Remember that night you hid in the closet for an hour because Nat stopped by with wine?”

“I was naked,” Bucky said mournfully. “That tweed jacket really chafed my a--” 

“And like you said, we’re adults.” 

“Well, technically, you’re an adult wearing a sloth onesie” -- you flashed him a sharp look; he sobered quickly -- “never mind. Carry on. We’re adults. Grown-ups. We have jobs.” 

“Jobs that were a part of this decision-making. We didn’t want our relationship to conflict with work,” you said quickly, remembering the long conversations that had kept the two of you up in the early days of the relationship -- well, not the _only_ things keeping you up.

A memory surfaced then -- leaning your head against Bucky’s sweaty chest, breathing deep and ragged. You’d traced the edges and feathers of his tattoo, the ink paths still new and winding. Now? You could draw it in your sleep, knew the story behind it. Woke in the mornings with your palm flat and warm against it, as though willing him not to fly away. 

_“I like having you all to myself,_ ” Bucky had whispered into the dim light, thumb rubbing against your shoulder, lips meeting your temple. 

The secret was delicious, and hilarious. Squaring off across the pub; Bucky’s smug, slightly gross attempts at flirting. Pretending like you didn’t care, and then stumbling home together in the dark. Kisses that left you both spinning. A sweet secret behind a closed door and two silenced phones. 

Bucky’s arms around your waist and his head against your shoulder tugged you back to the present, to what was right in front of you. A tangle, certainly, but not a mess. “Hey,” he said softly, turning you, cradling your jaw so gently in two hands. He’d hold you like that in low moments, in tender ones. In moments where the love ran so thick and so heady and close to the surface, you felt pulled apart at the seams. He held you fast, always. 

“Baby girl,” he whispered, voice husky and raw. “Living a Taylor Swift song has been pretty damn fun for the last little while, but our friends deserve a chance to be properly jealous of us, you know?” 

Love was a laugh you weren’t expecting; joy bubbling out, and frustration simmering down to nothing. Bucky dipped forward, kissed you swiftly. “That’s my girl,” he cooed, pinching your cheeks. “Now, let’s go make some amends. I think your phone just buzzed.” 

_Buzzed_ certainly would’ve been a preferable state, you thought wildly, glancing down at your phone screen to see Nat’s name flashing up. A firm knock on the apartment door had you scrambling to adjust the onesie, to ensure Alpine was safely away from the candle. Bucky stamped a quick kiss to your cheek, offered you an encouraging smile, and then moved to answer the door. 

You took a deep breath. 

* * *

“This is a nice couch, guys,” Sam said quietly, after five solid minutes of silence. It had been easy to distract yourself from it for the first little while: a necessary flurry of activity in getting jackets and boots stowed away, offering drinks, apologizing for the sloth onesie had all served as a buffer from any potential awkwardness. 

Watching Steve nervously try to assemble teetering sandwiches with the cheese and crackers didn’t prove to be quite as reassuring as you’d hoped, particularly when Alpine launched herself at him claws first, eager for a bite -- of him or the cheese, it was hard to tell. 

“Oh, shit, sorry.” Bucky’s mouth pressed down into a thin line, willing himself not to burst out laughing at Steve’s shocked expression, nor the sight of the kitten hanging by her claws to his pants. 

“Where’d you get it?” Sam asked, reaching for a can of soda. 

“Hmm?” Tearing your eyes away from Nat’s face, brow furrowed in concentration as she worked to get the perfect smear of brie on her cracker. “What’s that, Sam?”

“The couch.” He stretched out one arm, tipping the soda up to his lips with the other hand. “It’s really comfortable. Mine is ancient. It’s got a weird sag in the middle. Almost lost a date there a few nights ago.” 

The silence pulsed. Three beats, another. Wanda plucked a plump piece of gouda from the platter, still avoiding your gaze. Tension yawned deeper inside, willing you to actually _do_ something. To break this awkward stillness soaking through the apartment. Bucky tossed you a helpless shrug. 

_Do something_ , you willed him, hoping that the silent language the two of you had begun speaking in so many other aspects would translate here. Or that he’d just swoop in and save you. 

A knowing smile curved his lips. A look that clearly said, _I’ve got you, baby girl_. Rolling his shoulders confidently, he turned to _Sam_ . “Hey, buddy -- it’s from Ikea. Called _Morabo_.” 

Wanda scoffed. It was such a familiar sound, something you’d heard a million times before -- when Bella’s scorekeeping came into question; when someone at work left a mess in the break room. It wasn’t overly-critical or cruel; rather, more brusque impatience. 

It was that small sound, amid the clicking of Sam’s phone as he, presumably, began searching for the couch, that jolted you into action. “Wan,” you said softly. “Nat.” 

Steve was Bucky’s, and Sam, with his amiable, easygoing nature, seemed more to be there for the show and the snacks, than because he had any real issue with the secrecy or the relationship. He gave you an encouraging smile as you stepped closer, half-wishing Maria was there to help you along. 

“Um, want to go into the office?” you asked, watching from the corner of your eye as Bucky flopped down next to Steve, stroking Alpine quietly. 

The girls exchanged a look; Nat grabbed the platter before standing, and they followed you down the hallway into the second bedroom. Having them in this shared space with no secrecy now seemed strange, intrusive. You were almost shy as you opened the door, gestured to the smaller sofa inside. Wanda sat down gingerly, and you didn’t miss the way her eyes narrowed at the assortment of Polaroids that Bucky had painstakingly hung for you with string. 

Her own smile gleamed there; Natasha’s, too. Sam grinned with his arm slung around your shoulders, after a trivia victory early in the season. And there were more -- of you and Bucky, taken by his mother at his cousin’s wedding in the late summer, his lips pressed firmly to your cheek, his arm around your waist. Another of you, just a few days ago, napping on the couch with Alpine in your arms. 

Watching her expression flatten, and Natasha’s awkward shifting in the office chair -- it all settled in an ice cold rush. 

There was no need to be angry, or defensive. No need to overexplain, or apologize. 

Just to talk. 

“So --”

“I’m sor --”

“Where --”

Natasha shot you a grin; but Wanda just flushed, casting her eyes back down to her lap. Her hands twisted there, fingers flexing and tensing in intricate patterns. It was a nervous habit, you recalled it from exams, from first dates. 

She wasn’t angry. 

_She wasn’t angry_. 

“Wan,” you said softly, dropping down beside her on the couch, taking her hands in yours. “I’m sorry.” 

She raised her head, green eyes swimming with unshed tears. 

_Oh, shit_. 

“I’m too drunk for this,” Nat sniffled, wheeling over -- still in the chair -- to wrap an arm around Wanda. “You start crying, I’m going to cry, and I’m not a prettier crier. Even Steve said that.” 

You blinked. “He did?” 

“Yeah, we watched _Old Yeller_ together. It wasn’t pretty.” 

Wanda swallowed thickly, wiping under her eyes. “You watched _Old Yeller_ on a date?” 

A shrug. “We were tired of making out.” 

“Tired of making…” Wanda shook her head. “Okay, we’ll revisit that later. Now, about this...this secret relationship.” 

Natasha tittered, poking at your side. “The sex must be good, if you’re keeping it this quiet. Or...or maybe it isn’t?” 

“The sex is fine!” Bucky stuck his head through the doorway, handing over a plate of sliced and diced fruit. “Like these strawberries, my lovemaking is both refreshing and satisfactory.” 

“So glad you didn’t say ‘ _juicy_ ,'” Wanda muttered darkly. “Why are you lurking out there, Barnes?” 

His eyes found yours first, as they always did. Something too soft for words passed between you, and a small nod relinquished that trust. You could do this. And it wasn’t, you suspected, going to be that bad. 

A squeeze of Wanda’s hand brought her back to you, and Bucky quietly headed back to the living room, but not without leaving the shape of something new there in the office. They’d seen it; Natasha smiled around it, and Wanda blinked. It was that language, that movement, that _knowing_ that tied you and Bucky together. Handling everything without needing to speak. 

The thing was, you had that with Wanda, too. Friends for long enough, that when you wrapped your arms around her, tugged her into a hug so firm and so warm it made _you_ to cry, she just let it pour, a stream of borrowed guilt: “I’m so sorry,” she said, voice cracking. “I didn’t...I never meant for you to feel like you _couldn’t_ be with him, it was just trivia, just silly…”

“Question” -- you rubbed at her shoulders, reaching for Natasha, too, who popped a berry between her lips and grinned smoothly as she joined the embrace -- “what term, with origins in religious practices, describes excessive criticism of self?” 

“Self-flagellation,” Wanda answered quickly, subtly wiping her eyes against your shoulder.

“Mmhm...and _who_ is an adult capable of making mature, healthy decisions for herself and her partner?” 

“Not me,” Natasha mumbled. 

Wanda pulled away, fingers twisting again in her lap. “I feel so ridiculous,” she said quietly, not looking at either of you. “When Nat sent me the text about her and Steve, she had to be _drunk_ to do it. Like, do you guys honestly think I’m enough of an ogre that I wouldn’t want you to be in love? To date?” 

Her tone was desperate, pleading, and for a second, you almost _wished_ she was angry. No, you definitely did. Having Wanda come here to yell and lecture would have been infinitely preferably to this cold, quiet self-remonstrance. 

“Answer,” you said softly, taking both her hands in yours, “an adult capable of making mature, healthy, if short-sighted, decisions for herself and her partner? That’s me. Wan, this isn’t on you. You didn’t adversely impact our relationship in any way, okay?” 

“And you’re not an ogre,” Natasha chimed in. “Honestly, it was kind of hot to sleep with Steve thinking it was forbidden.” 

It was a combination of factors, you explained, over the resulting peal of laughter. And you and Bucky _had_ been planning on a reveal. Something quiet and level-headed, something to ease your friends into the reality of the relationship. “The secret was ours,” you shrugged, “and now we get to share the love.” 

Wanda still didn’t look convinced, but you’d expected that. She was a woman of data and evidence, of trial and error. Nat was more than happy to poke around on your phone now, to encourage you to go social media official with Bucky that very night. 

And thought it was his lips on your cheek in the group selfie, it was Wanda’s hand in yours, and Natasha’s bunny-ears behind your head. Steve held Alpine, and Sam typed in an Ikea order for his own _Morabo_ couch before smiling for the camera. 

The night stretched on in snacks and drinks and so many questions about timing, your head was spinning as you snuggled up against Bucky’s chest. Drowsily, you barely registered the sudden influx of notifications from friends and family as they spotted the indulgent kiss in the picture; nor Sam’s detailed timeline traced out on the whiteboard. Steve was particularly startled to realize that one night, you’d actually been sleeping in the bedroom while he and Bucky watched a hockey game. 

“So you heard me talk about…” His cheeks flushed bright pink. “About Mrs…”

“Yes, Steve. I know all about the awkward sexual tension between you and your landlady,” you said sleepily, falling in love all over again with the way Bucky’s laughter rumbled in his chest. 

“ _I knew it_!” Natasha hissed. 

Bucky’s arms around you, Alpine purring in Sam’s lap, now. The candle sputtered low; crumbs from the snack plates littered the coffee table, even the floor. But there was _this_ : so much love. So much celebration. A bit of backhanded relationship advice from Wanda; cheeky, complaining texts from Carol, who had _not_ wanted to paint the bathroom, let alone paint it green. 

And Bucky’s lips to the crown of your head as you drifted to a strange, half-dreaming sleep. Home, in the heart of these loves. It was the answer to a question you’d been too afraid to ask, really and truly -- would they accept it? Would they love this love as much as you did? As much as Bucky did? 

In the past several months, you’d clung to a pair of four-letter words. Hope, and love. And they come to rest in this moment, content and easy in the sight of Wanda’s soft, encouraging smile; and Natasha’s good-natured -- and tipsy -- teasing; Sam’s protestations that he knew it all along; and Steve’s gentle acceptance -- it was all, above and beyond, the best and purest answer for which you could have hoped.


	8. Epilogue: Bonus Round

Halfway through a lightning round of cocktail quizzing from Bella, you decided you loved Bucky Barnes -- even if he was running pretty damn late. 

“It’s been two years, do you think he’s ever going to be over it?” Natasha scanned down the length of the glossy new menu, offering all the new drinks Bella had painstakingly created during her takeover of the pub. 

“He lost at _Bucky Barnes_ trivia,” you reminded her, typing away at yet another _miss you_ text to the sore loser in question. “On his own birthday. Of course he isn’t over it.” 

“The real question is, how did you know the name of his childhood dentist?” Sam leaned over, pressed a friendly kiss to your cheek, and then to Wanda’s. “Does that count as pillow talk for you two? _Spicy_.” 

You rolled your eyes, plucking a heavily-laden chip from the plate of this week’s special ‘ _You’ll Never Guess How Many Cheeses Are In This’_ nachos. “Pretty slick for a guy wearing his son’s spit-up,” you said coyly. Sam cursed under his breath and grabbed a napkin to start rubbing at the stain. Behind him, his wife began to laugh -- a maniacal edge to it, certainly, but that was to be expected, it being their first night out since bringing Riley home from the hospital. 

Another trivia night, another competition come to an end. After weeks of preparation, studying between shifts, usually with Alpine or Bucky on your lap, the Brainiacs had lost, but only by the narrowest margin. Edged out by the Sweet Treats, a new team this season, formed by the cafeteria workers from the hospital. 

You were happy to watch them celebrate tonight, with a victory round -- not least because the team captain had brought in an enormous homemade sheet cake -- rich, dark chocolate, smothered in layers of vanilla frosting, studded with raspberries. It gleamed under the twinkling lights of the pub; all that was left was for Bella to make her annual speech about how amazing it was to see a workplace community come together in such a fun environment...knowledge is power...friendly competition makes for a better work culture...and so on, and so on. 

_On my way, baby girl._

The notification popped up in time with your smile, and the sound of gagging from Nat. “It’s been what, three years?” she said, politely flagging down a server. “And you still smile like a freaking Disney princess whenever he texts.” 

“Yeah, seriously was that a cartoon bluebird sitting on your shoulder?” Steve’s cheeks blushed with the effort to be sassy, shrugging out of his jacket and sitting down beside you with the heady scent of winter air clinging to his sweater and hair. It was clunky smack talk, but he was learning. Two years of chaotic, on-again-off-again, “this-week-we’re-sexy-friends-with-benefits, the-next-we’re-soulmates” love with Natasha had given him a bit of an edge, but he was still a mild-mannered cardiologist at the end of the day. 

And so loved for it. 

“That was so good, baby,” Natasha cooed, peppering his cheeks with kisses. 

Face still bright red, Steve reached for a menu and cleared his throat, trying to appear wholly unaffected by her praise. “Buck’s on his way,” he said softly, rubbing a little at a lipstick stain he could just intuitively _feel_ by this stage in his relationship. A seasoned pro, that’s what he was. “Running a little late. Had to pick something up.” 

“Got it.” Another handful of chips one positively _singing_ with a hit of jalapeno.

Conversation ebbed and flowed; the pub was surprisingly full tonight. A rush of people came in, all bundled up against the freezing March evening. Wanda grabbed your arm abruptly, drawing your attention down to her iPad and a digital spreadsheet she’d used to keep track of other teams’ specific strengths. “Wan,” you said gently, patting her on the shoulder. “Season’s over. We can start prepping in the summer, okay? Let’s just relax and enjoy the cake.” 

She exchanged a strange look with Nat, one you couldn’t quite read; Steve turned then, started engaging you in a conversation about a patient you’d had in common. “She threw a pudding cup at an intern,” he said, trying not to smile. “I mean, I know that’s not exactly good, but…” 

“Better than me,” you laughed. “My first appointment with her she offered to set me up with her son, conveniently leaving out the fact that he was married -- she just didn’t like his wife.”

It was easy to talk to Steve, two years later. That initial awkwardness had died down the morning after the big reveal, during a breakfast date where he processed, with Bucky’s help, the initial hurt he’d felt at realizing he hadn’t been trusted with such an important detail. But with conversation, accountability, and apology, things had quickly improved. 

Behind you, the pub doors swung wide open, letting in another rush of cold air. A glance down at your phone revealed no new notifications from Bucky, but when you tried to turn around, Steve took your attention again, this time with something on his phone. Some new medical terminology app he was excited about. 

More cocktails were ordered, another plate of nachos. The music pumped louder and louder; the Sweet Treats accepted their individual trophies. Still, Bucky hadn’t arrived, and between Steve, Natasha, and Wanda, you could hardly find a quiet moment to check your phone again. 

After fifteen minutes, though, you were getting impatient. “Where _is_ he?” you hissed, fumbling for your phone -- just as the music cut free, and someone cleared their throat up on the stage. 

He looked good, predictably. Not harried or frantic from running late, nor dressed down in the sweats and t-shirt he’d been wearing throughout the day. His hair was...shorter? He’d shaved. Wearing a leather jacket you’d never seen before, the colour of cognac. And a smile. 

A smile you’d learned how to make a home in, to navigate the tough moments by. Bucky’s smile was a homecoming and a treasure map all in one, and you found yourself relaxing into the curve of it now, even across the pub, even with the light rise of questioning whispers. Usually Bella, the moderator and now pub owner, took care of the season wrap up speech. Maybe Bucky was introducing her? 

“Hey, everyone,” he said smoothly, tapping at the microphone jokingly. “Testing, testing. How’s everybody doing tonight?” 

It was the pacing and intonation of a ‘90s stand-up comedian -- Bucky’s favourite schtick. He loved to impersonate them in the kitchen with whatever implement he could grab -- a ladle, a cucumber, once Alpine herself. “Got anybody here from out of town?” he asked, flashing that multiwatt smile straight at the front row of tables. 

A few polite laughs; one sounded _particularly_ familiar, urging you to try and turn -- but again, Steve gently redirected you with a soft tap to your elbow. 

“Congratulations to the Sweet Treats on their delicious win this season,” Bucky continued, still grinning. He caught your eye, flashed a wink. “This has been a great year, lots of learning, new challenges. It’s why I joined the trivia tournament in the first place. The learning, the challenges. And I really, really like being right. 

“But despite my _impressive performance_ this year, I’ve still got quite a few unanswered questions. In my life, you know.” He popped the mic from the stand, leaned casually against it. Confusion fluttered, tinged with something else. Excitement? “The last several years, important people in my life have been asking me questions I didn’t necessarily have the answer to. My grandma used to call me every week at college, asking if I’d met a special someone yet. My mom, same thing, once I started at the hospital. And when I started doing these trivia nights, my sisters got in on it. One of them even set me up on Tinder, you know.” 

_That sounds like Becca_ , you thought, smiling. 

“And then one night, you know, I got an email from my dad. It was the night of his wedding anniversary with my mom. Thirty years. They’d opened a bottle of wine and watched some home videos and it made him a little sentimental.” Bucky grinned, stretching out from the mic stand and looking down for a moment. It was a vulnerable move, a break from his cocky confidence. 

A few years together had helped to lend you a keener awareness of some of his movements, habits. This was an emotional Bucky, carrying something bigger than what he was letting onto the crowd. Instinct had him raising his head, finding your eyes: you smiled at him. Blew him a kiss. And he grinned. 

“So,” he said, clearing his throat. “You gotta know, my dad? Never asks about my lovelife. Although, he _did_ help my youngest sister pick out a picture for my Tinder profile. I was paying for a hot dog in it...actually, I think it was one of my greatest looks. Might’ve sent the wrong message about what I was looking for in a partner, though. Anyways…” 

He went on to explain that, in the email, his father had said he was so glad that Bucky had good friends to get him through his life. That his friendship with Steve, and his new one with Sam, with others, were wonderful, but that he was also hoping his son was fortunate enough to find his soulmate. 

Your breath caught. 

“I’d never thought too much about that word, you know,” he said quietly. “Maybe as a cool name for a dating app that matches people based on shoe style preferences, but nobody steal that, okay? No, seriously.” He looked right at you again. “I thought it wasn’t for me. That love that grand and deep didn’t exist for somebody who spent the majority of his life playing Mario Kart and, you know, saving lives. No big deal.” 

The responding wave of laughter was a bit more raucous this time. Because that was Bucky’s gift: he could make anyone laugh. 

“But I promised my dad I’d keep an eye out for them, whoever they were. Just trying to appease my tipsy old man. And then...guys, then, two days later? I saw her.”

The pub went quiet again. Beside you, Steve leaned forward on his stool, nudging you with his elbow. Smiling so bright and wide it honestly looked like it _hurt_. 

Your heart was pounding in your chest by this point, fingers trembling on the tabletop. Natasha noticed, and your hand, squeezing lightly. 

Up on stage, Bucky continued -- a distinct hoarseness to his voice that hadn’t been there a few seconds ago. “I’d seen her before, of course, even gotten yelled at by her -- and let me tell you, _that_ awakened something new…” 

More laughter, a low whistle; Steve shifted awkwardly beside you.

“Question for all of you, since you like that sort of thing: what _is_ a soulmate?” 

Wanda opened her mouth, ready to fire off a response, but Bucky cut her off pretty swiftly. You smothered a smile. “Just a second, Dr. Maximoff. I don't know if I can, in good conscience, award any specific team points for answering that. Because the truth is, it’s different for everyone, right? For my dad, it’s my mom. The girl who worked at the hockey rink canteen. Mother of his children. His golfing partner. The woman who let him be a big baby about breaking his toe from trying to execute a _Risky Business_ slide for a company commercial.

“For others, still, there are different definitions. Maybe some of us get more than one soulmate. Maybe there are soulmates for a minute, a month, a lifetime. Maybe there are soulmates whose paths never intersect, but they both make the world a better place even when they’re apart.” 

His eyes found yours again; gleaming now, the brightest blue you’d ever seen them. Your own vision was blurry, swimming with tears threatening to spill over; heart thumping loudly in your _throat_ now, still holding on to Nat’s hand for dear life. Was this...was this it? 

“My soulmate? I met her wearing blue scrubs and a tired smile,” Bucky continued, voice almost husky now. “She was leaning against the wall in the ER waiting room, eating a mixed berry yogurt and there was a little bit on her chin. And her eyes met mine, and even though I’d looked at her before, even though I’d gone toe-to-toe with her -- seriously” -- he cast an exasperated smile around the room -- “is it weirding anybody else out, how much I’m talking about feet tonight? Anyways, yeah, I’d gone toe-to-toe with her here, but in that moment, everything else just disappeared.

“I was in love with her mind, with her smile. Her wit.” His face softened again, and it was home, all of it. This was an expression you’d seen before, in the warm cup of a night shared, lying there in bed with sweat drying on your skin, his jaw cradled in a trembling, tired hand. This was a loving look, not lust, but the elegant aftermath. The delicate dissembling of bodies and souls and hearts and all the things he would tell you as he made love to you. All the things you would tell _him_. 

Clearing his throat, he continued. “I was in love with the way she swiped at that glob of yogurt that first time and looked me straight in the eye. I was in love with the way she gets with her patients, with her friends. And I have fallen in love with her all over again every single day since then. I’m _in_ love with her -- just you hold on, baby girl, because I’m about to get really sappy here -- “I’m in love with her when she first wakes up, and her voice is all crackly and her PJs are askew and and she hates the whole damn world. I’m in love with the way she baby-talks to our cat. I’m in love when she yells at me for messing up the colour coordinating thing she’s got going on in the closet. I’m in love with her in the middle of a nine-hour flight, and then again when she sat outside the hotel bathroom in Jamaica after I...well, you’ve seen the commercials...and you know what? She told me she still loved me, and she texted me pictures of the view from our balcony.” 

Somewhere behind you, a woman sniffled. It was quiet enough to hear a pin drop now; almost as though no one else was there. “I’ve been in love with her all over the world -- not just Jamaica and Paris. I’ve been in love with her in our apartment, in our car, in this pub. In the hospital. In the middle of a grocery store. It’s all these little moments building up to this overwhelming knowledge that I am in love with her so deeply.”

He took a step off the edge of the stage, just one low stair down. Slowly, he stepped towards you, eyes searing into yours, stars across the galaxy finding each other just to burn together. “I’m in love with my soulmate unendingly. Intricately. I can’t untangle it, and I don’t want to. Because all my life, I’ve loved answering questions, getting them right, coming home with an A-plus on every test just because I could. But all the learning I’ve done, all the things I’ve seen and practiced for -- nothing prepared me for this answer. The answer to the questions I’d been too afraid to ask of the world. Would I find my own? Who was my soulmate?” 

Bucky stood next to your table now, stepping around the side to face you properly. You slid on your stool, hardly noticing that Steve, Wanda, and Nat had slipped away. All there was in the world was him. Was this. The spice of his cologne; tongue darting out to lick at his lips. 

“Hey, baby girl,” he said quietly, away from the mic. Just for you. 

“Hey, Bucky,” you whispered, butterflies going wild in your belly, shivers chasing up and down your spine. If this was it, this was perfect. 

A grin burst wider on his stupidly-handsome face. “And here she is, everybody. But I’ve got another question now, baby girl.”

He handed the mic to Sam, reached into the inside pocket of his leather jacket. Distantly, dimly, you were aware of someone nudging you from the stool. You stood while Bucky fumbled around with something, scanning around the pub to realize, with shock, that the crowd behind you had been filled with more friends. With family. His parents sat at a table with his sisters and nephews. Bucky’s mom was wiping at her eyes; his dad had slung an arm around her shoulders, nodded at you with a broad, encouraging smile. 

At a table beside them, your family -- wearing beaming, tearful smiles. Your own spilled over then, heart leaping to your mouth then, so that if you were to speak, only love would pour out. 

“Baby girl,” Bucky said, and you looked down, down to see the perfect ring, the ring of your dreams -- everything you could’ve ever wanted and of course he _knew_ , knew without asking, because he was Bucky and he was yours and souls that find each other like this always know the unspoken language, the things not said but felt, wanted. “One more question, sweetheart.” He took a deep breath, you pitched forward into the blue of his eyes, fell in love with the ocean of him, the deep, deep safety of his gaze as he looked up at you. “Will you marry me?” 

The answer, you were sure, was worth more points than you could ever count. It spilled ot like champagne, bubbling on a laugh, and his crooked smile answered, as though he were already drunk on the joy of it -- 

“ _Yes._ ” 


End file.
